Seeete or , 


Serpe 


pate 
ets 


ay 
ise, 


PA a et 
Firat 


vite 








THE LIBRARY 
OF 
THE UNIVERSELY 
OF CALIFORNIA 
LOS ANGELES 


bs at es 








BIRDS OF HEAVEN 


and Other Stories 


BY 
VLADIMIR G. KOROLENKO 


Translated from the Russian by 


CLARENCE AUGUSTUS MANNING, Ph.D. 


Lecturer in Slavonic Languages, 
Columbia University 





NEW YORK 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright, 1919, by 
DUFFIELD & COMPANY 


Po 
et 
KLASSE 


| \\ \4 


TO 


JOHN DYNELEY PRINCE, Pu.D. 


PROFESSOR OF SLAVONIC LANGUAGES 
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 


834971 


Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2007 with funding from 
Microsoft Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/birdsofheavenothOOkoroiala 


CONTENTS 


Birps or HEAVEN 

Isn’r It TERRIBLE? . 

** NECESSITY ”’ 

it ett VORA. <0 8 de ee 
THe VILLAGE OF GoD . . . 


time Se) 
Mara = 


_ 


os > 7 


7 - 7 2 = 
Do ne 
+ 
. 


tee bt" 





INTRODUCTION 


Of all of the more modern authors of Russia, 
perhaps none holds a higher rank than Vladimir 
Galaktionovich Korolenko. He was born in 1853 
in Zhitomir, in the southern part of the Govern- 
ment of Volhynia. 

His works show an extensive knowledge of Rus- 
sia, through which he travelled very extensively 
(partly due to the fact that he was one time ban- 
ished for political reasons), and a very keen appre- 
ciation of the beauties and moods of nature. Even 
more than this, however, he appreciates very keenly 
the hardships and pleasures of the life of the peo- 
ple and while depicting them realistically, he suc- 
ceeds in casting over even sordid and unpleas- 
ant scenes, a veil of poetic beauty and of spiritual 
significance, which elevate his work above much of 
that produced by his contemporaries. 

The stories in this volume date from the last 
part of the nineteenth century, for the most part, 
and give a very good idea of the range and variety 


INTRODUCTION 








of the themes handled by Korolenko and of the 
almost mystical treatment which he sometimes em- 
ploys and his works in this respect are, if any- 
thing, more typically Russian than are those of his 
contemporaries who strive for a brutal and often 
repulsive realism. 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 


Becwee 


2 7 
- aon ae 


ane 
_ 





BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
I 


HAT day the monastery was joyously greet- 

ing the ikon. For two months the ‘‘Lady’”’ 

had been traveling from place to place and now 
she was returning home. 

First in their three-horse coaches came the priests 
who had accompanied her and who were now bring- 
ing back to the monastery the treasure which they 
had collected on their travels. They looked 
healthy, well-fed, and satisfied. They were fol- 
lowed by the motley bands of pilgrims. These 
came in greater and greater numbers out of the 
forest, until at last the climax was reached with 
the gilded covering of the ikon flashing in the sun- 
light above the heads of the marchers. 

Bells pealed forth; banners gleamed and waved; 
the singing of the choir and the tramping of thou- 
sands of men, like an onrushing river, filled the 

3 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








quiet neighborhood of the monastery with uproar 
and confusion. 

The place awoke. In the church hymns of 
thanksgiving were sung. On the square merchants 
and market women called out their wares from 
under their linen curtains; from the ‘‘institution’’ 
came the sounds of harmonicas and cymbals; in the 
huts of the village one set of pilgrims kept replac- 
ing another at the tables on which steamed enor- 
mous samovars. 

Towards evening a hard rain suddenly came up 
and drove the crowds and the merchants from the 
bazaar. The square and the streets became quiet 
and no sound was to be heard save the splashing of 
the huge drops in the puddles and the flapping and 
blowing of the wet curtains, as they were tossed 
by the storm wind. Yes, and in the church the har- 
monious singing still continued and the yellow 
lights of the candles still flickered on. 

When the clouds suddenly lifted and streamed 
off to the east, carrying with them the veil of mist 
which had hung over the fields and woods, the sun 
reappeared in the west and with its parting rays it 
tenderly caressed the windows of the village and 
the crosses of the monastery. But the earlier bus- 
tle did not return to the square of the bazaar. The 
pilgrims all had a quiet thirst for rest after their 

4 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





hard journey and the day ended with the last notes 
of the concluding service in the church. Even the 
cymbals behind the wall of the ‘‘institution”’ 
clashed weakly and dully. 

The service was ended. Within the church the 
candles burned out one after the other. The pil- 
grims scattered. Little groups of men and 
women stood at the door of the guest-house of 
the monastery, until the guest-master should grant 
admission to those who desired lodging. A fat 
monk and two lay brothers came out on the porch 
and began to divide the sheep from the goats. The 
sheep entered the door; the goats were driven off 
and, muttering, made their way to the gates. At 
the end of this operation, there remained by the 
entrance a group of Mordvin women and a wan- 
derer. Apparently, their fate had already been 
decided by the guest-master who reéntered the 
building. 

In a moment the lay brothers came out, counted 
the women and admitted them to the women’s 
apartments. The older lay brother walked up to 
the solitary stranger and said with a bow: 

‘‘Forgive me, for Christ’s sake, Brother Var- 
sonofy. . . . The guest-master will not permit you 
to stay here. . . . Go in peace.’’ 

A sick smile passed over the face of the young 

5 





BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








wanderer and I was surprised by its peculiar, dra- 
matic, and significant character. The man’s face 
was also worthy of notice: hump-nosed, thin, and 
with large, glowing eyes. <A pointed hat and a 
hardly noticeable, but pointed, beard gave the man 
an unusual appearance. The whole dry figure 
dressed in an old cassock, with a thin neck and a 
strong profile, attracted your attention, even 
against your will. The impression which it pro- 
duced was clear, alarming and disturbing. 

When he heard the words of the lay brother, the 
stranger bowed and said: 

**God will save and for this. . .’’ 

As he turned to go, he suddenly staggered. He 
was clearly sick and extremely tired. The good- 
hearted lay brother looked at him and _hesi- 
tated. 

‘Wait, Brother Varsonofy. . . . I will try 
again.’’ 

The stranger rested on his staff and waited ex- 
pectantly. But in a moment the brother again came 
out and, walking up with some embarrassment, 
said with evident pity: 

*“No, he won’t allow it... . Father Nifont told 
him that a stranger... like you... speaks 
badly . . . disturbs the people.’’ 

The stranger’s face showed how he felt. His 

6 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








eyes flashed, as if he were about to speak, but he 
bowed and said: 

‘‘Thank you, fathers. .. .”’ 

And he wearily went from the door. 

The lay brother looked at me questioningly. I 
knew that he was about to shut the gate and so I 
went to the outer court. This was already empty. 
The young man who sold kalaches (cakes) for the 
monastery was behind his stand, but no one came 
to it. 

The porter closed one gate behind me and then, 
‘ pressing with his feet, he started to close the sec- 
ond. Just then a scuffle was heard within the gate, 
the tramping of several pairs of feet; the opening 
again widened and in it appeared an ill-favored 
figure in a pilgrim’s costume, reddish and faded. 
A rough, hairy hand held it by the collar and di- 
rected its involuntary movements. <A vigorous 
push. . . . The stranger flew off several paces and 
fell. One wallet and then another sailed after 
him. . . . A small book in a worn leather binding 
fell out in the mud and its leaves commenced to 
blow in the wind. 

*‘Look here, . .*.”? said a deep, bass voice be- 
hind the gate. ‘‘Don’t quarrel... .’’ 

**What’s the matter?’’ asked the porter. 

‘“Why, this,’? answered the bass voice. ‘‘Be- 

7 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








cause of him the guest-master sinned . . . turned 
a man away.... And he’s a good man. Oh! 
Obl. 5 reel Sy ae 

The speaker went away. The porter shut the 
gate, but not quite completely; curiosity mastered 
him and his little eyes, his fat nose, and his light 
mustache could be seen through the crack. He 
was following with manifest interest the further 
actions of the rejected wanderer. 

The latter quickly rose, gathered up his wallets, 
put one on his back, and threw the other over his 
shoulder. Then, picking up the book, he carefully 
began to clean the mud off of it. Looking around 
the court, he caught sight of me and of the kalach- 
seller. A group of peasants were watching the lit- 
tle drama from the outer gates of the square. De- 
liberately the stranger assumed an air of dignity, 
and, with the most demonstrative devotion, he 
kissed the binding of the book and made a sarecas- 
tic bow toward the inner gates. 

‘“T thank you, holy fathers. As ye have received 
the stranger and fed the hungry .. .”’ 

Suddenly noticing in the crack of the gate the 
mustache and nose of the porter, he said in a dif- 
ferent tone: 

‘‘What are you looking at? Did you recognize 
me?’’ 


8 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








“‘T thought ... yes... I thought you were fa- 
miliar,’’ said the porter. 

‘Of course, of course! ... We’re old friends! 
We ran off together to the Mordvin women of Svi- 
ridov. . . . Do you remember now?”’ 

The porter spat loudly and angrily, closed the 
gate, and threw the bolt. But his feet, with their 
rough boots, could still be seen beneath the gate. 

“‘Don’t you remember Fenka, father ?’’ 

The feet disappeared as if ashamed. 

The stranger straightened his muddy cloak and 
again looked around. Attracted by the unusual 
conversation, some six peasants had strolled to- 
wards the gate. They were the nearest neighbors 
to the monastery, Old Believers from the villages 
in the vicinity, who had come to the bazaar with an 
air of indifferent and even hostile curiosity. De- 
spite its influence at a distance, the monastery was 
surrounded by a ring of the ‘‘most venomous’’ 
sectarians, as the monks expressed it. The inhabi- 
tants of the region were positive that in the near 
future the monastery would be threatened with the 
fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, But still it con- 
tinued and attracted thousands of people to 
its festivals. On such days the figures of the 
Old Believers furnished a grim contrast to the re- 
joicing multitudes and their faces reflected their 

9 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








hostility and disgust. Like the Prophet Jonah, 
they murmured because the Lord delayed in in- 
flicting the promised doom upon the accursed 
Nineveh. 

They were now watching with malevolent curi- 
osity the scene which was being enacted at the door 
of the dishonorable habitation. 

‘“What’s the matter? They won’t let him in, I 
see, ...’’ one said jokingly. ‘‘It’s crowded... 
with Mordvin women... .’’ 

The wanderer turned and threw a keen glance at 
the speaker. Suddenly his face took on a humble 
expression and he walked back to the gate,—and 
three times he crossed himself reverently and osten- 
tatiously. 

The peasants looked at one another in surprise; 
the stranger had made the sign of the cross not 
with three fingers, but in the old way with only 
two. 

‘<The Lord, Who seest all things, will reward the 
monks according to their mercy,’’ he said with a 
sigh. ‘‘We, brothers, will shake off the dust from 
our feet, and listen here, in the temple not made 
with hands (he pointed gracefully and calmly to 
the evening sky), to an instructive sermon on re- 
pentance. .. .”’ 

The peasants crowded together; their faces ex- 

10 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








pressed their delighted and also credulous sur- 
prise. The change was too unexpected. ... The 
idea of holding their own meeting on the alien fes- 
tival and of listening at the very gate of the mon- 
astery to a wandering preacher, who made the sign 
of the cross in the old way, clearly pleased the ad- 
herents of the old faith. The preacher took his 
stand at the base of the bell-tower. The wind ruf- 
fled his dusty, light hair. 

It was hard to tell the man’s precise age, but he 
was clearly not old. His face was heavily tanned 
and his hair and eyes seemed faded from the action 
of sun and storm. 

At each movement of his head, however slight, 
the cords of his neck stood out prominently and 
trembled. The man gave you, involuntarily, the 
impression of something unfortunate, wonderfully 
self-controlled and, perchance, evil. 

He began to read aloud. He read well, simply, 
and convincingly, and, stopping now and then, he 
commented in his own way on what he had read. 
Once he glanced at me, but he quickly shifted his 
eyes. I thought he did not care for my presence. 
After that he turned more often to one of his audi- 
tors. 

This was a broad-shouldered, undersized peas- 

‘ant, whose shape might have been fashioned by two 

é 11 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








or three blows of an axe. In spite of the square- 
ness of his figure, he seemed very communicative. 
He paid the utmost attention to every word 
of the preacher and added some remarks of 
his own, which expressed his almost childish 
joy. 

**Oh, brothers . . . my friends,’’ he said, look- 
ing around. ... ‘‘It’s so true, what he told us 
about repentance. ... The end might come... . 
You know... and we’re such sinners... just 
one little sin more and another. Yes, yes... .’’ 

‘And that means another and another,.. .’’ 
broke in a second. 

WOE > 6 VOU Neb. i 5 ORE” 

With delighted eyes, he looked around the gath- 
OFING. | v.55 

His noisy interruption and his joy apparently 
did not please the preacher. The latter suddenly 
stopped, turned his head quickly, and the cords of 
his neck tightened like ropes. . . . He wanted to 
say something, but he checked himself and turned 
a page. 

The congregation had rejoiced too early. At the 
very time when they were most highly exalted,— 
pride and excessive hope pressed hard on the lad- 
der. It trembled; the listeners seemed frightened ; 
the ladder crashed down... . 

12 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘*He’s through!’’ were the sad words of the deep- 
voiced peasant. 

‘“Yes, brother!’’ chimed in the first. And a 
strange thing: he turned his sparkling eyes on all 
and the same joy sounded in his voice. . . . ‘‘Now 
we have no excuse. .. . We mustn’t do that first 
little sin.’’ 

The stranger closed his book and for a few sec- 
onds he watched the speaker obstinately. But the 
peasant met his gaze with the same joy and trust- 
ing good nature. 

**Do you think so?’’ asked the preacher. 

**Yes,’’? answered the man. ‘‘Judge yourself, 
my friend. . . . How long will He suffer us?’’ 

*‘Do you think so?’’ the preacher asked again 
with some emphasis, and his voice caused signs of 
uneasiness to appear on the other’s face. 

‘*You know there are limits to the long suffering 
of God. You know about the Orthodox Catholic 
Church.’’ 

He turned a few pages and began to read about 
the spiritual power of the Orthodox Church. The 
faces of his hearers darkened. The preacher 
stopped and said: 

‘“‘The Orthodox Catholic Church... .Is she 
not the means of salvation? He who seeks refuge 
in her need not despair. So...if...’’ 

13 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








A tense silence prevailed for a few seconds. The 
stranger was facing the crowd of peasants and he 
felt that he held their feelings in his hands. Not 
long since, they had been following him joyfully 
and it was not hard to foresee the results of the 
sermon: the men of the old faith had been ready to 
invite to their homes the man who had been driven 
from the monastery. Now they were dumbfounded 
and did not know what to think. 

‘‘But if,’’ continued the stranger, accenting each 
word, ‘‘any one rejects the one Mother Church... 
expects to be saved in cellars with the rats... if 
he trusts in shaved heads. . .’’ 

The peasant with the deep voice suddenly turned 
and walked away. 

His good-natured companion glanced around 
with an air of disillusionment and a lack of com- 
prehension and said half-questioningly: 

‘Are you shocked?... Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!...”’ 

He followed the others. The sectarians grimly 
went to the gates. The wanderer remained alone. 
His figure was outlined sharply against the base of 
the tower and there was a strange expression in his 
faded blue eyes. Evidently he had intended to 
gain by his sermon that lodging which the monks 
had denied him. Why had he suddenly changed 
his tone? ... 

14 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








There were now only three of us in the yard: the 
wanderer, I and the young fellow under the cur- 
tain of the booth. The stranger glanced at me but 
at once turned away and walked up to the dealer. 
The young man’s face beamed with joy. ... 

‘That was clever,’’ he said. ‘*‘ You shocked them. 
well. They all had their heads shaved. The devils 
were threshing peas. Ha, ha, ha!’’ ‘ 

He broke out into a hearty, youthful laugh and 
started to put his wares within the shop. 

When he had finished, he closed the swinging 
doors and locked them. The shop was well made 
and adapted for moving,—it was on wheels and 
had a low shelf. The fellow evidently intended to 
sleep by his wares. 

‘*Well, it’s time to go to bed,’’ he said, looking 
at the sky. 

In the yard and behind the gates all was still 
and deserted. From the bazaar the wares had all 
been carried away. The fellow faced the church, 
crossed himself, opened the door a little way and 
crawled under his stand. 

His hands soon appeared. He was trying to put 
a small sereen over the opening. 

The stranger also looked up at the sky, thought 
a few seconds, and walked resolutely up to the 
shop. 

15 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘*Wait, Mikhailo! I’ll help you like a good 
fellow.’’ 

The pale-faced man let go and looked out of his 
quarters 

‘“My name’s Anton,’’ he said simply. 

**Come, Antosha, let me help you.’’ 

*‘T’m very glad; thank you. It’s hard to do it 
from here.’’ 

Anton’s simple face disappeared. 

‘‘Please . . . move your feet a little.’’ 

Anton obeyed. The wanderer quietly opened the 
door, stooped quickly, and, to my amazement, I 
saw him step nimbly into the opening. A scuffle 
ensued. Anton moved his feet and part of the 
stranger appeared outside for a moment, but with- 
out any delay and almost instantaneously he dis- 
appeared again within. 

Interested by this unexpected turn of events, I 
almost instinctively walked up to the booth. 

**T’ll yell, I’ll yell,’’ I heard the nasal but pitiful 
voice of Anton. ‘‘The fathers will beat you up 
again!’’ 

“Don’t yell, Misha. What’s the matter?’’ 
argued the wanderer. 

‘““Why do you keep calling me Misha? I tell 
you my name’s Anton.”’ 

‘‘In the monastic jargon your name will be 


16 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Mikhailo. Remember that.... Hush! Quiet, 
Anton, keep still.”’ 

The booth became silent. 

‘‘What for?’’ asked Anton. ‘‘What do you 
hear ?”’ 

‘Listen, hear the tapping. . . . It’s raining.”’ 

‘““Well, what of it? Tapping.... If I let 
out one shout, the fathers will tap harder on 
you.”’ 

‘“Why do you keep harping on one thing? I’ll 
yell and yell. You’d better not. If you do, I’ll 
eat you up. I’ll tell you a good story about a 
A 

**T see, you’ve been stealing something. ”’ 

‘It’s wrong, Antosha, for you to slander a 
stranger. You gave me this one kalach yourself. 
I ate nothing—you believe God. .. .’’ 

“Go ahead and eat a stale one. . . . I haven’t 
eaten them up,’’ and Anton yawned so hard that 
he gave up all thoughts of further resistance. 

**You shocked those blockheads well,’’ he added 
at the end of his strenuous yawn. ‘‘You’ve cer- 
tainly showed them up.”’ 

‘** And the fathers?”’ 

‘‘The fathers wanted to spit at you.... You 
promised to tell me a story. Why don’t you 
do it?”’ 

17 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








**In a certain country, in a certain land,’’ began 
the stranger, ‘‘in a convent with a stone wall, lived 
a nun, brother Antoshenka. ... And such a nun. 

+ Oh, ob;.on?* 

Re ONT aca 

‘Yes, she lived there, and grieved.’’ 

Silence. 

OWOLT 33... 100 One” 

Silence again. 

**Well, go on. What did she grieve about?’’ 
insisted the interested Anton. 

“*Go to the devil, that’s what! Why did I start 
a story? You know I hoofed it thirty versts to-day. 
She grieved about you, you fool, that’s what she 
did. Let me sleep!’’ 

Anton let out a sound of utter exhaustion. 

‘‘Well, you’re a rogue. I see your scheme,’’ he 
said reproachfully. 

*‘All right, knave,’’ a minute later but more 
softly, and even sorrowfully. ‘‘Yes, a knave.... 
I never saw such a knave before.’’ 

All was quiet in the booth. The rain beat harder 
and harder on the slanting roof, the earth grew 
black, the puddles disappeared in the darkness. 
The monastery garden whispered something, and 
the buildings behind the wall stood defenceless 
against the rain, which pattered on the gutters. 

18 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 


The guard within the enclosure beat upon his wet 
rattle. 








II 


The next day I started back with Andrey Ivano- 
vich, who had accompanied me on many of my 
wanderings. We had been walking not without 
having interesting experiences, lodged in the vil- 
lage, and started off again rather late. The pil- 
grims had already left and it was hard to imagine 
the crowds which had passed by such a little while 
before. The villages seemed busy; the workmen 
could be seen as white spots on the fields. The 
air was muggy and hot. 

My companion, a tall, thin, nervous man, was 
this day especially gloomy and irritable. This 
was a not at all uncommon state towards the end . 
of our joint trips. But this day he was unusually 
out of humor and expressed his personal disap- 
proval of me. 

Towards afternoon, in the heat, we became com- 
pletely disgusted with each other. Andrey Ivano- 
vich either thought it necessary to rest without 
any reason in the most inappropriate places, or 
wished to push on, when I proposed stopping. 

We finally reached a little bridge. A small 

19 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








stream was flowing quietly between the damp green 
banks with their nodding heads of grass. The 
stream wound along and disappeared behind a bend 
amid the waving grain of the meadows. 

““Let’s rest,’’ I said. 

‘“We’ve got to be getting on,’’ answered Andrey 
Ivanovich. 

I sat down on the railing and began to smoke. 
The tall figure of Andrey Ivanovich went on, 
ascended a hill and disappeared. 

I bent over the water and began to meditate. I 
thought I was absolutely alone, but I suddenly felt 
that some one was looking at me and then on a hill 
under some birch trees, I saw two men. One had a 
small and almost childish face. He at once hid 
from shame in the grass behind the crest of the 
hill. The other was the preacher of the preceding 
evening. As he lay on the grass, he quietly turned 
his bold, gray eyes upon me. 

‘‘Come, join us, we’ll have more fun together,’’ 
he said simply. 

I got up and to my surprise I saw the feet of 
Andrey Ivanovich sticking out of the grass by 
the road; he was sitting nearby in the boundary 
strip, and his cigar smoke was rising above the 
tops of the grass. I pretended not to see him and 
walked up to the strangers. 

20 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








The one whom I had taken for a child proved to 
be a young, sickly creature in a striped cassock, 
with thin hair around his narrow, sallow face and 
a nose like a bird’s beak. He kept straightening 
his cassock, was uneasy, kept moving around and 
was clearly ashamed of his condition. 

‘*Sit down and be our guest,’’ the preacher sug- 
gested with a slight gesture. Just then the tall 
figure of Andrey Ivanovich rose like the shade of 
Banquo above the grain. 

*‘Let’s be going!’’ he said in a not very kind 
tone of voice, as he threw away the butt of his 
cigar. 

‘*T’ll stay here,’’ I answered. 

‘*T see you like those parasites better. . . .’? And 
Andrey Ivanovich glanced at me sorrowfully, as 
if he wished to impress upon me the impropriety 
of my choice. 

‘*Yes, there’s more fun here,’’ I answered. 

**T’m through with you. I hope you remain in 
good ecompany.”’ 

He pulled his eap down over his face and started 
off with long strides, but he soon stopped, came 
back, and said angrily: 

**Don’t ask me again! You rascal, I’ll never go 
with you again. Don’t you dare to ask me! I 
refuse,’” 


21 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘*It’s my business whether I ask you or not. 
. . - Yours is to go or not.’’ 

‘*A serious-minded gentleman!’’? The wanderer 
nodded after him as he started off. 

‘*He doesn’t approve of us,’’ the little man said 
in a voice that was between a sigh and a squeak. 

‘“What do we care whether he does or not?’’ 
remarked the preacher indifferently. Then he 
turned to me: . 

‘‘Haven’t you a cigarette, sir? . .. Please.’’ 

I held out my case to him. He took out two 
cigarettes, lighted one and placed the other beside 
him. His small companion interpreted this in a 
favorable way and rather irresolutely reached for 
the free cigarette. But the preacher, with perfect 
composure, took the cigarette out of his hands and 
placed it on the other side. The little fellow was 
embarrassed, again squeaked from shame and 
straightened his robes. 

I gave him a cigarette. This embarrassed him 
still more,—his thin, transparent fingers trembled; 
he smiled sadly and bashfully. 

**T don’t know how to beg,’’ he said in shame. 
‘¢ Avtonomov orders and orders. . . . But I ean’t.’’ 

‘“Who’s this Avtonomov?’’ I asked. 

‘“That’s me,—Gennady Avtonomov,’’ said the 
preacher with a stern glance at his small com- 


22 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








panion, who quailed under the glance and dropped 
his sallow face. His thin hair fell and rose. 

*‘Are you walking for your health, or why?”’ 
Avtonomov asked me. 

‘Because I want to. . . . Where are you going?”’ 

He looked into the distance and answered: 

‘To Paris or nearer, to Italy or further. .. .”’ 
And, noticing that I did not understand, he 
added: 

“‘T was joking. ...I am wandering aimlessly 
wherever it suits me. For eleven years——’’ 

He spoke with a faint touch of sadness. Then 
he quietly exhaled some tobacco smoke and 
watched the blue clouds melt away in the air. His 
face had a new expression, a quality I had never 
noticed before. 

‘‘A wasted life, signorf! A ruined existence, 
which deserved a better lot.’’ 

The sadness disappeared and he concluded 
grandiloquently, with a flourish of his cigarette: 

**Yet, good sir, the wanderer will never be will- 
ing to exchange his liberty for luxurious palaces.’’ 

Just then a bold little bird flew over our heads 
like a clod of earth thrown up into the air, perched 
on the lowest branch of the birch, and began to 
twitter without paying any attention to our pres- 
ence. The face of the little wanderer brightened 

23 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








and was suffused with a ludicrous kindness. He 
kept time with his thin lips and, at the successful 
completion of any tune, he looked at us with trium- 
phant, smiling, and weeping eyes. 

“‘QO God!’ he said finally, when the bird flew 
away at the end of its song. ‘‘A creature of God. 
It sang as much as it needed to, it praised Him, 
and flew off on its own business. O darling! ... 
Yes, by heaven, that’s right.’’ 

He looked at us joyfully, and then became em- 
barrassed, stopped talking, and straightened his 
eassock, but Avtonomov waved his hand and added 
like a teacher: 

‘‘Behold the birds of heaven. We, signor, are 
the same kind of birds. We sow not, neither do we 
reap, nor gather into barns... .”’ 

“*You studied in the seminary?’’ I asked. 

‘Yes. I could tell a lot about that; only there’s 
little worth hearing. But, as you see, the horizon 
is being covered with clouds. Up, Ivan Ivanovich; 
rise, comrade, rise. The portion of the wanderer 
is journeying, not resting. Let us wish you every 
sort of blessing.’’ 

He nodded and started rapidly along the road. 
He took free, even strides, leaning on a long staff 
and thrusting it back with every step. The wind 
blew out the skirts of his cassock, he bent forward 

24 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








under his wallet, and his wedge-shaped beard pro- 
jected in front. It seemed as if this sun-burned, 
dried, and faded figure had been created for the 
poor Russian plain with the dark villages in the 
distance and the clouds which thoughtfully gath- 
ered in the sky. 

‘A scholar!’’? Ivan Ivanovich shook his head 
sadly as he tied up his wallet with trembling hands. 
‘*A most learned man! But he falls to nothing 
just as I. On the same plane . . . we wander to- 
gether. God forgive us, the last... .’’ 

‘“‘Why??? 

‘“Why? How? The modern wanderer has a 
good wallet, a cassock or kaftan, boots, for example, 
—in a word, equipment for every circumstance, 
so to speak. And we! You see yourself. I’m 
coming, I’m coming, Gennady Sergeich, I’m com- 
ing. Right away!’’ 

The little fellow soon overtook his companion. 
Thinking that they had reasons for not inviting 
me to accompany them, I kept sitting on the hill, 
and watching a heavy, dark cloud rise from behind 
the woods and spread quietly, sadly, imperceptibly, 
almost stealthily over the sky, and then I went 
on alone, regretting the controversy with Andrey 
Ivanovich. 

It was quiet and sad. The grain waved and 

25 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








rustled drily. In the distance, behind the woods, 
growled the thunder and at times a large drop of 
rain fell, 

It was an empty threat. Towards evening I 
eame to the village of K. and it had not rained 
yet, but the cloud was advancing quietly and 
spreading out; it grew dark and the thunder 
sounded nearer and nearer. 


III 


To my surprise, on the bank of earth around one ~ 
of the first huts of the village, I saw Andrey 
Ivanovich, with his long legs reaching almost to 
the very middle of the street. As I approached, 
he looked utterly unconcerned. 

‘‘What are you doing, Andrey Ivanovich?’’ 

**Drinking tea. Did you think I was waiting 
for you? Don’t flatter yourself. When the cloud 
passes, I’m going on.’’ 

“tpink,** 

‘*And your adored——”’ 

“¢Who??’? 

‘Those wanderers, people of God. . . . Please 
see what they’re doing in that hut! Go, look: 
it’s nothing; don’t be ashamed... .’’ 

I walked up to the window. The hut was full. 

26 


— 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








The peasants of the village were all away on busi- 
ness and so there were only women present. A 
few young women and girls were still running 
back and forth past me. The windows were open 
and illuminated, and I could hear within the even 
voice of Avtonomov. He was teaching the dis- 
senters. 

‘Come, join us,’’ I suddenly heard the low voice 
of Ivan Ivanovich. He was standing in a dark 
corner near the gate. 

‘“What are you doing?’’ 

“Fooling the people. That’s what they’re 
doing,’’ interrupted* Andrey Ivanovich. 

The little wanderer coughed, and, squinting at 
Andrey Ivanovich, he said: 

‘“What can we do, sir?’’ 

He bent toward me and whispered: 

‘The old dissenters think Gennady Sergeich is 
a runaway priest. It’s dark. What can we do? 
We may not get anything. And, besides, there’s 
nothing else to do. Won’t you come in?”’ 

‘*Let’s go in, Andrey Ivanovich.’’ 

‘‘What I haven’t seen there?’’ he answered, 
turning away. ‘‘Go,—kiss them. I think enough 
of myself not to do this, for I wear a cross.”’ 

**So do we,’’ Ivan Ivanovich spoke with a mild 
tone of reproach. 


27 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Andrey Ivanovich whistled suspiciously, and 
then, with a serious look on his face, he called 
to me: 

**Do you know this disreputable crowd ?”’ 

With an enigmatic glance at me, he added in a 
lower tone: 

‘*Did you understand ?’’ 

‘“No, I didn’t. Good-bye. If you want to, wait 
for me.”’ 

‘“We’ve nothing to wait for. Some people don’t 
understand... .’’ 

I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because I 
went into the hut with Ivan Ivanovich. 

Our entrance caused some excitement. The 
preacher noticed me and stopped. 

*““Oh! We thank you,’”’ he said, pushing the 
women aside. ‘‘Please. Won’t you have a little 
cup of tea? Here’s the samovar, even,though it’s 
a dissenting village.’’ 

*“Did I disturb you?’’ 

‘“What nonsense. Woman, bring the samovar! 
Quick!’’ 

**Do you use that weed, too?’’ asked a young 
woman with a full bosom and bashful, coal-black 
eyes, who was standing in the front. 

“Tf the gentleman will permit,—it will give me 
pleasure, . . , and I’ll drink another. .. .”’ 

28 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








**Tf you please,’’ I said. 

‘*Please give me a cigarette.”’ 

I gave it to him. He lighted it and looked 
laughingly at the surprised women. A murmur of 
dissatisfaction ran through the hut. 

‘Do you suck that?’’ asked the young woman 
spitefully. 

‘‘Of course. ... According to the Scriptures, 
it is permitted.’’ 

*‘In what part?—teach us, please.’’ 

He smoked on and then he threw the cigarette 
over the heads of the women into a basin of water. 

‘‘He’s thrown it away,’’ said the hostess, fussing 
around the samovar. 

‘‘Don’t throw it away, fool; you'll set the place 
on fire,’’ interrupted another. 

‘‘Afire? If the well won’t stop that, you’d 
better put out the fire in the kitchen.’’ 

‘“What are you thinking of? Everything is 
done nowadays. Even the priests smoke.’’ 

‘‘Of course, of course. You’ve a voice like a 
bell. You ought to be in a convent choir. Come 
with me.’’ 

He reached for her. She cleverly turned aside, 
bending her beautiful form, while the other women, 
laughing and spitting, ran out of the hut. 

‘“W-what a priest,’’ said a thin woman with 

29 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








childishly open eyes. She was in evident terror. 
‘*T-teacher !”? 

““Yes, he’ll teach us.’’ 

“Teach us,’’? laughed a soldier’s wife, coming 
forward and resting her cheek on her fat hand. 
‘Teach us something easy and sweet.’’ 

**Yes! We'll sigh for you.’’ 

**T’ll teach you. What is your name, beauty?’’ 

*‘T’m ealled what I’m ealled and nicknamed 
Gray Duck. What do you want?’’ 

“You, Gray Duck. Give us some vodka,— 
heavens, they’ll pay up.’’ 

‘Get what? We'll get it.’’ 

She looked at me questioningly and cunningly. 

‘“Please, a little,’’ I said. 

The soldier’s wife hurried from the hut. Laugh- 
ing and pushing, two or three women ran out 
after her. The hostess looked displeased but she 
put the samovar on the table and without a word 
she sat down on the bench and commenced to work. 
The children watched us curiously from their plank 
beds. 

Laughing and panting, the soldier’s wife put on 
the table a bottle of some sort of greenish liquid. 
Then she walked away from the table and looked 
at us laughingly and boldly. Ivan Ivanovich 
coughed from embarrassment and the temporary 

30 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








widows still in the hut gazed at us in secret ex- 
pectation. After the first cups, the preacher of 
the evening lifted the skirts of his cassock and 
stamped around the Gray Duck, who avoided his 
caresses. 

‘Go away!’’ She waved her hand, and, with a 
provokingly challenging glance at me, she walked 
up to the table. 

‘“Why don’t you drink? Look at them,—they Il 
finish it, I bet. Go ahead and drink.’’ 

Smiling and shrugging her shoulders, she filled 
a glass and brought it to me. 

‘Don’t drink!’’ These words, in an unexpect- 
edly venomous tone, came through the window, and 
out of the darkness appeared the bony face of 
Andrey Ivanovich. 

*““Don’t drink the vodka, I tell you!’’ he re- 
peated, still more sternly, and again disappeared 
in the darkness. 

The soldier’s wife let the glass tremble and 
spill. Thoroughly frightened she looked out of the 
window. 

‘“May the power of the cross help us,—what 
was that?’’ 

Everyone felt ill at ease. The vodka was ex- 
hausted and the question was whether to get more 
and continue, or to end now. Ivan Ivanovich 


31 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








looked at me in timid sorrow, but I had not the 
slightest desire to continue this feast. Avtonomov 
suddenly understood this. 

‘*Really,—it’s time to be going,’’ he said, walk- 
ing towards the window. 

‘*But it’s raining outdoors,’’ said the soldier’s 
wife, glancing to one side. 

*‘No. The clouds are all right; . . . they look 
dry. . . . Get ready, Ivan Ivanovich.’’ 

We began to get ready. Ivan Ivanovich went 
out first. When I followed him into the dark, 
closed yard, he took my hand and said in a low 
tone: 

‘“There’s that long-legged fellow waiting by the 
gate. 

In very truth I made out Andrey Ivanovich by 
the entrance. Avtonomov, with his wallet and 
staff, came out on the porch, holding the soldier’s 
wife by the hand. Both figures could be seen in 
the lighted doorway. The soldier’s wife did not 
withdraw her hand. 

‘* Are you going to leave us?’’ she said in despair. 
‘“We thought—you’d carouse around here.’’ 

‘Wait, I’ll be back,—I’ll get rich.’’ 

She looked at him and shook her head. 

‘“Where? You'll never get rich. You'll * 
along, empty... .”’ 

32 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








*‘Don’t caw, you crow. ... Tell me this: does 
Trina’s clerk still live by the cemetery ?”’ 

‘‘Stchurovskaya? Yes. He just went to the 
bazaar. What do you want?’’ 

‘““This. Let’s see....He had a daughter, 
Grunyushka.,’’ 

‘‘She’s married.’’ 

““Nearby ?’’ 

**To a deacon in the village of Voskresenskoye. 
The old woman’s there alone.’’ 

‘You say Irina’s husband hasn’t come back?”’ 

‘‘He hasn’t been seen.’’ 

“Ts he rich?’’ 

*“No, he lives like everyone else.’’ 

**Good-bye! . . . Glasha-a!’’ 

**Now, now! Don’t eall. . . . You know Glasha 
is good and not yours. Go along. There’s nothing 
to hang around for.’’ 

Kindly pity could be heard in the voice of the 
village beauty. 

Outside the dark figure of Andrey Ivanovich left 
the gate and hurried towards us, while at the 
same time Avtonomov overtook us and silently 
went ahead of us. 

‘“You should have stayed till morning,’’ re- 
marked Andrey Ivanovich grimly. ‘‘I could have 
waited here!’’ 


33 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘‘That’s foolish,’’ I answered coldly. 

‘‘How so? Why?”’ 

‘Why ?—you could have gone on if you didn’t 
like it.’’ 

‘‘No, thanks for your kindness, I’m not wiliing 
to leave a companion. .. . I’d rather suffer myself 
than leave him. ... We’ve been together three 
years, Ivan Anisimovich. Trifles don’t count, I’ve 
drunk so often in good company... .”’ 

$e ag 4’? 

‘“‘They took off my vest; three rubles twenty. 
... A new pocket book. .. .”’ 

**TIf you’re blaming Gennady and me for this,’’ 
began Ivan Ivanovich, hurriedly and excitedly, 
‘‘that’s so mean. Why?...If you have any 
doubts, we can go ahead or stay behind. .. .”’ 

**Please don’t pay any attention,’’ I said, wish- 
ing to quiet the poor fellow. 

‘“What’s the matter?’’ asked Avtonomoy, stop- 
ping. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’ 

‘“They’re so suspicious. Lord, have mercy upon 
us! Are we really robbers, the Lord forgive the 
word?’’ 

Gennady gazed in the darkness into the face of 
Andrey Ivanovich. 

- Oh, the lanky gentleman! ... I see!’’ he said 
drily. ‘The man who never trusts has pleasure, 


34 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








if all he judges by his measure.’ ... The road 
is broad. . ..* 

He again walked forward quickly and his timid 
little companion ran after him. Andrey Ivanovich 
waited for several seconds. He was surprised that 
the stranger had answered in rhythm. He almost 
started after him, but I caught his hand. 

‘‘What’s the matter with you?’’ I said angrily. 

‘*You’re sorry for your good companions?’’ he 
said spitefully. ‘‘Please, don’t be uneasy. They 
won’t go far... .”’ 

In very truth we caught sight of a black figure 
near the last houses. It was Ivan Ivanovich, 
alone. 

He was standing in the road, panting and 
coughing and holding on to his breast. 

‘“What’s the matter?’? I asked sympatheti- 
eally. 

“Oh, oh! My death! ...He went off.... 
Gennady. . . . He ordered me not to go with him. 
... To go with you. I can’t catch him.’’ 

‘‘That’s all right. Do you know the road?’’ 

*‘It’s the broad road. He hurried on some 
place or other.’’ 

‘“Fine.’’ 

We walked along in the darkness... . A dog 
barked behind us; I looked around and saw in the 

35 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








darkness two or three lights in the village, but 
they soon disappeared. 


IV 


It was a quiet, starless night. The horizon could 
still be traced as an indistinct line beneath the 
clouds, but still lower hung a thick mist, endless, 
shapeless, without form or details. 

We walked on quite a while in silence. The 
wanderer panted timidly and tried to smother his 
cough. 

“*T don’t see Avtonomov,’’ he kept saying, and 
he gazed helplessly in the blackness of the 
night. 

‘We can’t see him.... But he sees us, by 
heavens,’’ said Andrey Ivanovich, spitefully and 
ominously. 

The road seemed to be a confused streak, like a 
bridge across an abyss... . Everything around 
was black and indistinct. Was there or was 
there not a light streak on the horizon? There 
was not a trace of it now. Was it so short a time, 
since we were in that noisy hut with the laughter 
and conversation? . .. Will there be any end to 
this night, to this field? Were we moving ahead 
or was the road like an endless ribbon slipping 

36 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








by under our feet while we remained treading in 
the same spot, in the same enchanted patch of 
darkness? An involuntary, timid joy sprang up 
in my soul when an unseen brook began to babble 
ahead of us, when this murmur increased and then 
died away behind us, or when a sudden breath of 
wind stirred the searcely visible clumps of willows 
beside the road and then died away, a sign that we 
had passed them. ... 

**Tt’s night now all right,’’ said Andrey Ivano- 
vich quietly, and this was very unusual for him. 
‘*A man’s a fool to walk the roads a night like 
this. And what are we after, I’d like to know. 
We worked during the day, rested, drank our tea, 
prayed—for sleep. No, I don’t like it—and then 
we started along the roads. It’s better for us. 
Here it’s midnight and we haven’t crosséd our- 
selves yet. We certainly pray! .. .’’ 

I made no answer. Thoughts of repentance 
seemed still to be running through the head of 
Andrey Ivanovich. 

‘Women can teach us a little,’’ he said sternly. 
‘*We don’t stay at home. What do we want? .. .’’ 

‘““Why, I can’t see Avtonomov,’’ interrupted 
the plaintive voice of the young wanderer. 

‘Neither can I,’’ grunted Andrey Ivanovich. 

‘*What a misfortune!’’ said the young wan- 

37 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 











derer sorrowfully. ‘‘I’ve been abandoned by my 
protector... .’’ 

His voice was so filled with despair that we 
both looked ahead involuntarily in search of the 
lost Avtonomoy. Suddenly, rather to one side, we 
heard a dull sound as if some one had stepped upon 
an old bridge. 

‘“There he is!’’? said Andrey Ivanovich. ‘‘He 
went to the left.’’ 

*‘The road must have turned.”’ 

In truth the road soon forked. We also turned 
to the left. Ivan Ivanovich sighed from relief. 

‘“What are you grieving so over?’’ asked Andrey 
Ivanovich. ‘‘Is he your brother or who is he? 
He’s a freak, begging your pardon.’’ 

‘‘He’s closer than a brother. I’d be lost with- 
out him; I can’t beg myself. And in our condi- 
tion not to—is absolute ruin... .”’ 

‘“Why do you wander around ?’’ 

The stranger was silent as if it were hard for 
him to answer this. question. 

‘*£T’m looking for a shelter. In some monastery. 
. . . Since my youth I have been destined for the 
monastic life.’’ 

‘You should live in a monastery.’’ 

‘‘T have a weakness,’’ said Ivan Ivanovich, al- 
most inaudibly and bashfully. 

38 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








6 a — 





‘‘You like drink.’’ 

‘*Yes, that’s it. I was spoiled as a child.’’ 

“Too bad! . . . The devil’s to blame for it.’’ 

*“Yes, the devil. . . . Of course. . . . Formerly, 
when the people were serfs, he had a lot of work: 
he wrestled with the monotonous life, we’ll say... . 
They all saw him. . . . And, just think, they strug- 
gled just the same. . . . Now it’s our weakness. ... 
The people are all inclined to it.’’ 

*“Y-yes,’’ assented Andrey Ivanovich. ‘‘It’s 
much easier now for the impure. ... He lives 
with us, by heavens. Lie, dear, on the stove... . 
We’ll come to see you and bring one another... . 
Only entertain us.”’ 

The stranger heaved a deep sigh. 

‘““That is the truth!’’ he said sadly. ‘‘I’ll 
tell you about myself,’’ he whispered, as if he 
did not wish his words to be heard by any one in 
the blackness along the road. ‘‘Do you know who 
ruined me? My own mother and my father 
superior !’’ 

‘“Wh-what?’’ queried Andrey Ivanovich, also 
in a low tone. 

‘Yes! . . . I know it’s sinful to blame my dead 
mother,—may she rest in peace!’’ He took off his 
hat and crossed himself. ‘‘And yet I keep think- 
ing: if she had had me taught a trade, I might 

39 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








have been a man like the others. ... No, she 
wanted her child to have an easy life, the Lord 
forgive her... .”’ 

**Go on, go on!’’ urged Andrey Ivanovich. 
*“You know,’’ continued Ivan Ivanovich sadly, 
‘fin old times, as the books say, parents always 
objected and children went secretly to the monastic 
cell to devote themselves. . . . But my mother took 
me herself to the monastery; she wanted me to 

become a clerk.”’ 

**Yes, yes!’’ 

‘And before that, I must tell you, they used 
to make them psalmists and so on,... but they 
had changed by my time!”’ 

‘““That’s the rank!’’ 

“Yes! ... And mother again! stay there in 
the monstery. . . . That’s an easy life. And the 
superior loves you.... That’s the truth: the 
father superior did love me and took me as a 
novice under his own charge. But if a man is 
doomed, fortune will become misfortune. I’ll tell 
you the truth: I fell because of an angel . . . not 
because of the devil. . . .”’ 

‘What are you telling us?’’ said Andrey Ivano- 
vich in surprise. 

‘‘Just the truth... . Our superior was a won- 
derfully kind soul, not evil, and strict.... But 

40 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








he had a secret weakness; at times he’d drink. 
Quietly, nobly. He’d shut himself up and drink 
for three or four days. No more than that. Then 
he’d all at once stop it. . . . He was a strong man. 
. . . But once, in that condition, he got bored. 
And he called me and said: ‘Dear boy, mortify 
yourself. Vanya, obey me and do something you 
don’t want to. An innocent boy, stay with me, 
a hardened sinner.’ Well, I did it, and sat and 
listened how he talked with some one and wept 
over that weakness of his... . I wasn’t strong, 
and when I got tired I fell asleep. He said: 
‘Vanya, take a drop to brace you up.’ And I 
drank a glass of brandy. . . . ‘But swear to me,’ 
he said, ‘that you’ll never drink a drop alone with- 
out me.’ ”’ 

*““So that’s it,’? drawled Andrey Ivanovich 
meaningly. 

**Of course I swore. And he gave me another 
glass.... And so it went. At first a little, 
then—— The father superior was a strong man. 
No matter how much he drank, he was still steady. 
But, you know, after three or four glasses, my 
feet went. . . . He remembered himself and for- 
bade me solemnly. It was too late. I didn’t 
drink with him and I had the keys to the chest. 
. .. I began to take a nip secretly. . . . Another 

41 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 


and a larger one. ... A second time I couldn’t 
walk. He thought at first that it was from that 
first drunkenness, because of my weakness. Then 
he looked at me steadily and said: ‘Vanyusha, 
do you want a glass?’ I trembled all over from 
my longing for it. He guessed the truth. He 
took his staff, caught it in my hair, and reasoned 
with me. ... He was strong and afraid of hurt- 
ing me.... It did no good. Again and again. 
. . . He saw that his weakness was ruining me. He 
said to me: ‘Forgive me, Vanyushka, but you must 
pass through temptation or you’ll be ruined. ... 
Go and wander. . . . When you meet sorrow you 
ean be healed. I will pray for you. Come back 
in a year,’ he said, ‘on this same date. I will re- 
ceive you like the prodigal son.’ He blessed me. 
Began to weep. Called the rufalny, that is, the 
monk who had charge of the habits, and ordered 
him to get me ready to wander. ... He himself 
said the prayers for a brother who is going on a 
journey. . . . And forth I went, the servant of the 
Lord, on the twenty-ninth of August, the day of 
the Beheading of St. John Baptist, for a period 
of wandering. ...’’ 

The narrator again stopped, drew his breath, 
and coughed. Andrey Ivanovich sympathetically 
stopped walking and the three of us stood in the 

42 











BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








dark road. Finally Ivan Ivanovich was rested 
and we started on again. ... 

**So I traveled summer and winter. It was hard 
-work and I had many sorrows. Yes! I went to 
various monasteries. Some places I didn’t get 
into the courtyard,—others I didn’t like. Our 
monastery was supported by the state and rich and 
I’d gotten accustomed to an easy life. And I 
couldn’t get into another state monastery, but 
they took me into one where all the monks lived 
together, that of St. Cyril of Novoye Ozero, and it 
was awful: we got little tea and not a bit of to- 
bacco; the monks were all peasants. ... A hard 
rule and a lot of work. .. .”’ 

*‘T bet you didn’t like that after your easy 
life,’’ said Andrey Ivanovich. 

**To tell the truth, I wasn’t strong enough,’’ 
sighed Ivan Ivanovich humbly. ‘‘The burden was 
too great. . . . And sanctity looked unpleasant in 
that garb. There was no splendor. ... A lot of 
people and no choir. . . . They did make an awful 
N66 

‘‘That’s sanctity!’’ said Andrey Ivanovich with 
conviction. 

**No, let me tell you,’’ answered Ivan Ivanovich 
no less emphatically. ...‘‘You’re wrong.... 
That doesn’t determine the kind of monastery. A 

43 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








monk must be trained and have a head like a 
blade of grass . . . and hold himself up. . . . That 
makes a fine monk and there’s mighty few of them. 
And the simple monk is smooth and clean with a 
velvety voice. Benefactors and women go wild 
over them. But a peasant, let me tell you, is no 
account even there. .. .”’ 

** All right. . . . What next?’’ said Andrey Ivan- 
ovich, a little surprised at the decided opinion of 
the expert. 

‘“What next?’’ answered the wanderer sadly. 
*‘T wandered for a year. I fasted and wandered. 
. . . The worst was that my conscience bothered 
me; I didn’t know how to beg. I waited and 
waited Tor that year to end,—to go home, home, 
to my poor cell. I thought of the father superior 
as if he were my own father; I loved him so. 
Finally August twenty-ninth came. I went into 
the courtyard, you know, and somehow I felt badly. 
Our attendants came to the gate... . They knew 
me. ‘Wanderer Ivan, have you returned?’ ‘I 
have,’ was my reply. ‘Is my benefactor alive?’ 
‘Too late,’ was the answer. ‘He was buried some 
time ago. He was deemed worthy; he went away 
with the collect of the Resurrection. He remem- 
bered you... and wept. ... He wanted to re- 
ward you. ... We’ve got a new superior,...@ 


44 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








barbarian. Don’t let him see you?’ But,’ he 
added, plaintively, ‘‘I can’t see Avtonomov.”’ 
His voice betrayed his terror and sorrow. 


V 


Andrey Ivanovich stared into the darkness and 
suddenly he caught hold of my hand, exclaiming: 

‘Stop! We shouldn’t have come.”’ 

‘*What’s the matter?’’ 

**T told the truth. Don’t chase on after them! 
Wait for me. ... Ill run and see... .’’ 

He quickly disappeared in the darkness. I 
stayed with Ivan Ivanovich in the road. When 
the steps of the bootmaker died away, we heard 
merely the quiet noises of the night. The grass 
rustled gently; at times a rail whistled as it ran 
nervously from place to place. In the vague dis- 
tance the frogs were croaking dreamily and play- 
ing in the swamp. Hardly visible clouds were 
rising. 

*‘That’s just like him. .. . My comrade loves 
to walk at night,’’ complained Ivan Ivanovich. 
**What’s the use of it? Why not by day?”’ 

‘*Was he in a monastery too?’’ 

**Yes,’’ answered Ivan Ivanovich. Then, with 
a sigh, ‘‘He’s from a good family. His father 

45 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








was a deacon in the city of N. You may have 
heard of him. . . . His brother is a secretary in a 
police office. He was betrothed... .’’ 

‘*Why didn’t he marry?’’ 

‘Don’t you see, he’d already gone wrong. ; ; « 
He ran away ... but he wasn’t a wanderer yet. 
He had the outfit but he didn’t wander. ... He 
passed as a suitor. He was accepted. The girl 
loved him, and her father didn’t object. . . . Oh! 
... Oh! ... Of course, it was sinful, . . . he de- 
ceived them. Sometimes, when he tells about it, 
you'll ery, and then again it’s really funny.’’ 

Ivan Ivanovich acted strangely. He laughed 
and then began to choke and put his hand over 
his mouth. At first you could hardly tell he was 
laughing. But he really was,—an hysterical, bash- 
ful, rather explosive laugh, which ended like a 
cough. When he quieted down, Ivan Ivanovich 
said, half-pityingly: 

**Only he tells it different every time. ... You 
can’t tell whether it’s the truth or not.’ 

**He wouldn’t lie?’’ 

**Not exactly, ... but he’s not always accu- 
rate. You see, the truth——’’ 

‘*Just what does he say?’’ 

**You know, the clerk, he says, was clever. He 
saw the young man wasting his time, really doing 

46 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





————— 


——_——_— 


nothing. He pretended to go to a bazaar,—so he 
went to the city, left the old woman in the house, 
and gave her strict orders to keep an eye on him. 
Avtonomov, you see, didn’t live with them, but 
in the village with the woman who baked the bread 
for the church. ... He kept visiting them... . 
Every day. . . . They’d sit by the river bank... . 
And the old woman was there, too. And, of course, 
she watched them. ... One time, my dear little 
Avtonomoy saw two men coming from the city in 
a cart—and both drunk. They came up and 
turned out to be the clerk and his older brother, 
the secretary. He hadn’t even looked around— 
when they landed on him and licked him. The 
reason why: his brother, because he ran away from 
the seminary; the clerk, for deceiving and dis- 
gracing him... .”’ 

Ivan Ivanovich sighed. 

‘“‘He hardly got off alive, he says. ... They 
were both angry and drunk. ... He ran to the 
house where he was living, grabbed his wallet, and 
off into the woods. . . . Since then, he says, he’s 
been wandering. . . . But, another time, he really 
. . . tells something else.’’ 

He came nearer to me and wanted to tell me 
something very confidentially. But suddenly out 
of the darkness near us came the figure of Andrey 

47 





BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Ivanovich. He walked rapidly with a deliberately 
menacing scowl. 

**Come here, if you please.”? He took me aside 
and whispered : 

‘“You and I are in a nice mess!’’ 

°*How???’ 

‘This Avtonomov, the monk, seems to have gone 
off to steal... . We’ll get into trouble over him 
Wels 
**That’s enough, Andrey Ivanovich.’’ 

**Yes, for you. Did you hear what he asked in 
the village? Of the soldier’s wife? About a cer- 
tain clerk? Is the clerk actually at home or not?’’ 

**Yes, I remember.’’ 

**Do you remember where that clerk lived?”’ 

**Yes, by a cemetery.”’ 

‘‘There it is!’?? said Andrey Ivanovich mali- 
ciously, pointing ahead in the darkness. 

‘“What of it?’’ 

*¢Just this... . The old woman, you heard, is 
alone. ... And he went right there.... He 
walked around the yard and looked. You’ll see 
for yourself. ... That’s the sort of a fellow 
you wanted to drop an old companion for. . . . If 
he’d crossed the bridge without a board creaking, 
we’d have gone straight along the road....TI 
turned aside. . . . Let’s go ahead quietly.”’ 

48 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Behind us some one coughed plaintively. Andrey 
Ivanovich looked around and said: 

‘‘Come with us, novice. ... What can we do 
with you? You love your comrade.’’ 

We crossed the bridge, followed the road and 
came to the cemetery. On the hill a little light 
shone through the trees. I saw the whitish walls 
of a small house, perched on the edge of a hill, 
and behind it was the dark outline of a bell-tower. 
Below on the right it was easier to imagine than 
to see the little stream. 

‘‘There he is,’? said Andrey Ivanovich. ‘‘Do 
you see him?’’ 

Not far from us, between the wall and the 
slope, near an arbor covered with foliage, was a 
figure. A man seemed to be crowded against and 
fastened to the fence and looking through the 
bushes. By the light of the window, I saw tne 
pointed cap, the long neck, and the familiar pro- 
file of Avtonomov. The light streamed out 
through the trees and lilac blossoms. When I 
went nearer, I saw in the window the head of 
an old woman in a cap and with horn spectacles. 
Her head nodded like that of a man who is work- 
ing when he is terribly sleepy, and the needles 
moved rapidly in her hands. The old woman was 
evidently waiting for her husband to return. 

49 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Suddenly she listened. ... An irresolute call 
came out of the darkness: 

‘*Olimpiada Nikolayevna!’’ 

The old woman looked out of the window but 
saw no one. 

A moment of silence, and then the same call was 
repeated : 

*‘Olimpiada Nikolayevna!’’ 

I did not recognize Avtonomov’s voice. It 
seemed soft and timid. 

‘“Who’s there??? The old woman suddenly 
started. ‘‘Who called me?’’ 

“Tt’s I... . Don’t you remember Avtonomov? 
. . . We used to know each other. .. .”’ 

‘‘Avtonomov, merey. ... We never knew any 
one of that name. ...I don’t know you. . 
Wait a moment and I’ll call some one. Fedosya, 
oh, Fedosya! . . . Come here quick. . . .”’ | 

*‘Don’t call, mother. ... I won’t disturb you. 
. . . Have you really forgotten Avtonomov?... 
I used to be called Genasha. .. .”’ 

The old woman got up, took the candle and 
held it out of the window. There was no breeze. 
The flame burned steadily and illuminated the 
bushes, the walls of the house, and the wrinkled 
face of the old woman with her glasses pressed 
up on her forehead. 

50 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





— 
_ 





‘“‘That voice sounded familiar. ... Where are 
you?... If you’re a good man——”’ 

She held the candle above her head and the 
light fell on Avtonomoyv. The old woman stag- 
gered, but just then another woman entered the 
room. The old woman grew bolder and again 
threw the light on Avtonomov. 

‘‘Fine,’’ she said coldly. ‘‘The suitor, of course. 

. What are you walking around under the 
window for? .. .’’ 

sy ce eaaed to be passing, Olimpiada Niko- 
layevna——’’ 

‘*Passing, and would pass. . . . See here, when 
the master returns, he’ll set the dogs on you.’’ 

She closed the window and lowered the curtain. 
The bushes disappeared, and the figure of Avtono- 
mov was*lost in the darkness. 

We could then think of leaving, and we quickly 
descended the hillock. ...In a few minutes we 
heard the bells in the tower. Some one apparently 
wanted to show that there were people in the 
cemetery. ... 

Andrey Ivanovich walked slowly and thought- 
fully.. Ivan Ivanovich ran panting at a dog trot 
and constantly stifling his cough. . .. When we 
had reached a proper distance he stopped and said 
again with indescribable sorrow: 

51 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘“We’ve lost Avtonomov... .’’ 

His voice was so despairing that Andrey Ivano- 
vich and I involuntarily felt sorry for him. We 
stopped and began to peer into the darkness. 

‘‘He’s coming,’’ said Andrey Ivanovich, strain- 
ing his lynx-like eyes. 

In very truth we soon saw behind us a strange 
shape like a moving tree. Avtonomov had large 
bunches of lilaes in his belt, on his shoulders, and 
in his hands, and even his cap was decorated with 
flowers. When he caught up with us he had per- 
fect control of himself and seemed neither glad 
nor astonished. He walked on along the road and 
the branches waved about him in a very peculiar 
manner. 

‘*It’s great to walk at night, signor,’’ he began 
grandiloquently, like an actor. ‘‘The fields are 
clothed in darkness. . . . There’s a grove on one 
side. ... See how peaceful it is! The nightin- 
gale pours forth its melody. . . .”’ 

He almost declaimed this but yet his voice 
showed that he was a little exasperated. 

*“Wouldn’t you like a spray from my garden, 
signor ?”’ 

With a theatrical gesture, he offered me a branch 
of lilacs. ? 

Near the road a nightingale sang timidly and 

52 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








irresolutely. In the distance, in answer to the 
bells from the cemetery, came another, and we 
could hear the noise of a rattle. Somewhere 
on the dark plain dogs were barking.... 
The night grew darker and it began to feel like 
Fain. .. 5 

‘**T’m sorry,’’? Avtonomov suddenly began at ran- 
dom, ‘‘I got separated from you by the cemetery. 
I have an old friend who lives there, a real old 
friend. If he’d been home, we’d all have gotten 
lodging and something to eat. . . . The old woman 
asked me to stop,... but without her hus- 
band——’’ 

Ivan Ivanovich cleared his throat. The boot- 
maker snorted ironically. 

Avtonomov must have guessed that we had seen 
more than he thought, for he turned to me and 
said: 

‘‘Judge not, signor, that ye be not judged... . 
Another’s soul, signor, is dark. . . . Some time,’’ 
he added resolutely, ‘‘believe me, I’ll come here, 

. and I’ll be entertained. . . . And then... .’’ 

‘*And then?’’ 

‘Oh! .. . we'll be entertained. . . . Drink till 
you can’t see. .. . And I’ll crow over it. . . .”’ 

“¢Why?”’ ; 

‘‘Why! This place should be like any other. 

53 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








But yet, signor, it appeals to me... The 
(Se ers 

He walked on more rapidly. 

We passed by a little village and reached the 
last hut. Its small windows looked out sightlessly 
into the dark field. . . . All were sleeping within. 

Avtonomov suddenly walked up to the window 
and tapped sharply on the pane. An indistinct 
face appeared behind it. 

*“Who’s there?’’ asked a dull voice, and a fright- 
ened face was pressed against the glass. ‘‘Who’s 
coming around this time of night?’’ 

‘“‘The d-devil,’? drawled Avtonomov in a piere- 
ing, evil tone, and he stuck his head with its floral 
decorations against the pane. . . . The face within 
disappeared in terror. . . . Dogs began to bark in 
the village; the guard struck his rattle; the dark 
plain went on guard. . . . Again somewhere in the 
distance the sleeping churches droned forth their 
prolonged notes, as if to defend the peaceful region 
from some unknown evil. <As if they felt that 
above them was hanging the menace of certain 
dark and hopelessly ruined lives. 


VI 


We walked for more than an hour through the 
dark fields. "Weariness claimed its own and we 


54 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





—— 


neither wished to speak nor listen. At first I kept 
on thinking and tried in the darkness to imagine 
the appearance of my companions. This worked 
with Andrey Ivanovich, whom I knew well, and 
also with the little wanderer, but I had forgotten 
the features of Avtonomov, and as I looked at his 
dark form I could not recall his face. . . . Avtono- 
mov at the clerk’s house and yesterday’s preacher 
seemed two distinct people. 

My thoughts became still more confused; sev- 
eral days of tramping,—the dull night, the silence, 
the heavy, muddy road or the absence of one,— 
this was all that I could learn from my great 
weariness, and I began to lose myself as I walked 
along. It was a sort of semi-consciousness which 
permitted fantastic dreams strangely intertwined 
with reality. But reality for me was merely the 
dark road and three misty shapes, now behind me, 
now driving me onward..... I went with them 
almost unconsciously. 

When I partially awoke, they were standing in 
the road and arguing. 

‘‘Open your eyes,’’ said the bootmaker, angrily 
but lazily. 

‘‘Thanks for your explanation,—I wouldn’t 
have guessed it,’? answered the wanderer. ‘‘Don’t 
you know, signor, how to get to the road?’’ 

55 





BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








I looked out lazily into the darkness. With its 
arms disappearing among the clouds, a huge black 
windmill towered above us; behind and beside it 
were others. I thought the whole field was dotted 
with windmills, silent but menacing... . 

‘*‘T’ve been spitting all night to beat this devil,’’ 
said Andrey Ivanovich venomously. 

‘Well, just keep still a little while, lanky 
signor,’’ said Avtonomov. ‘‘Listen!.. .’’ 

‘‘Grinding?’’ said Andrey Ivanovich question- 
Mgly;.. «.. 

‘‘Right,’? answered Avtonomov cheerfully. 
‘‘The wheels are working. What a jolly little 
river !’’ 

““Ts it far?’’ 

““Yes, by the road. We'll take a short cut.”’ 

**You’ll land us in the swamp, you devil. ... 

My feet carried me through the darkness after 
the three dark figures. I stumbled over the stub- 
ble or the hummocks, and they threw me forward or 
to the side. . . . If I had met a ravine or a river,— 
I would probably have waked up at the bottom. ... 
At times strange phantoms leaped and flew from 
my head into the unshapen fog. 

Finally I ceased to stumble over hummocks. I 
felt a level road beneath my feet and I heard an 
even, kindly hum. Water was pouring, roaring, 

56 


= 


9? 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








running, splashing and foaming, telling of some- 
thing interesting, but too confused. . . . The noise 
stopped, but suddenly it became louder, as if the 
water were pouring through a dam. . . . I woke up 
completely and looked around in surprise... . 
Andrey Ivanovich caught me from behind. He 
took my arm and pushed me ahead... . 

‘“Wake up ... you'll sleep when you’re walk- 
ing. ... We’re tied up with the devil and may 
God forgive us! ...If the peasants come out, 
they’ll break our necks... . Quick, quick... . 
See Ivan Ivanovich go with his cassock held 
Morice" 

Indeed, the little wanderer was running with a 
speed that surprised me. 

ad >. Ae 

Without understanding what had happened, I 
found myself hidden in the thick willows on the 
bank of a little stream. Ivan Ivanovich was pant- 
ing. .. . Avtonomov was not with us. Near by 
the mill was roaring. The water raged and poured 
through the open sluices. One wheel was turning 
heavily as before,—another seemed locked,—it 
trembled and groaned beneath the assaults of the 
water. A dog was pulling at his chain and howling 
with anger. 

A window in the mill lighted up as if the building 

57 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








had waked and opened one eye. A door creaked and 
the old miller in a white shirt and trousers came 
out on the platform with a lantern. Behind him 
came another man, yawning and stretching. 

‘‘Did the dam go out?’’ he asked. 

‘It certainly did —hear it roar in the sluice- 
ways; it almost broke the bars. . . . Just look. ... 
Oh, ye saints... .”’ 

**Just look; they’re open.’’ 

**What the devil! Who opened them?’’ 

The peasants went to the sluices. The roar soon 
died away; they pushed both bolts and the mill 
stopped. The light of the lantern slowly crawled 
back along the dam and again disappeared. Then 
a rattle sounded shrilly. One peasant was evi- 
dently still on guard. ... 

The unusual commotion at the mill, sounding 
across the fields, again roused the sleeping villages. 
It was surprising how many of them were hidden 
in the darkness. From all sides, in front, behind, 
almost beneath, they answered the alarm with the 
beating of boards and rattles. The slow peal of a 
bell floated up from a distant village or a cemetery. 
Near by some night bird called. 

*‘Let’s go,’’ said Andrey Ivanovich, when the 
mill had become quiet.... ‘‘One rascal can so 
disturb people.’’ 

58 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘“What’s the matter?’’ I asked. 

‘* Ask him,’’ said the bootmaker spitefully, and 
he pointed to Ivan Ivanovich. 

‘“Y-yes,’’ answered the wanderer sadly. ‘‘Of 
course, it’s outrageous....I1 don’t approve of 
| 

‘“What’s the matter? Where’s Avtonomov?’’ 

‘“‘There he is—ealling like a bird and making 
signs to us.... Come here, my dear compan- 
ions. ... How the rascal managed to open the | 
sluices, I didn’t happen to notice. You, too!... 
Youll follow him and sleep. If you’d kept on... 
and the peasants had appeared before,—there’d 
have been a pienic. You bet! I’ll catch that devil 
and don’t you interfere. I’ll turn him inside out 
and run his feet out through his throat! ... 

He started ahead with his mind made up. 


vil 


Andrey Ivanovich did not carry out his sav- 
age intentions and in a half hour we were 
again walking silently along the road. . . . It was 
not yet sunrise, but the white, milky streaks kept 
breaking through the clouds, and beneath our feet 
we could see the whitish fog which covered the 
whole plain. Suddenly the fog opened and showed 

59 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








us a horse’s head and a cart loaded with sacks and 
a peasant sleeping on them and another empty cart 
behind it. 

‘‘Unele, hey, uncle,’’ said Andrey Ivanovich to 
the second peasant, ‘‘won’t you take us along?’’ 

The peasant rubbed his sleepy eyes and looked 
with amazement at the crowd which had sur- 
rounded him. 

‘“Where did God bring you from?’’ 

‘“A pilgrimage.’’ 

**So, so! Sit down, but I can’t take you far; 
we’re from around here.”’ 

*“You’re not from the mill?”’ 

‘They were at the mill, but I’m empty. Sit 
down; that’s right.’’ 

We got into the cart and sat down, letting our 
feet hang. 

“‘Let me ask you a question,’’ said our guide, 
clucking to his horse; ‘‘have you been walking all 
night?’’ 

Yea. 

‘You didn’t hear anything, did you?’’ 

‘Some dogs barking in the distance. Why?’’ 

‘““Why? Some one opened the sluices in the mill 
and almost smashed the wheels.”’ 

““Who was it?’’ 

‘‘T don’t know! Some one got fooling around at 

60 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








night. In our little village near by, they say, the 
fellow asked to be taken in. A peasant looked out, 
but he said: ‘I’m the devil, let me in.’ ”’ 

‘“He was,’’ said Avtonomov, who had discarded 
his decorations some time before. 

‘He wasn’t. . . . I’ll never believe it. . . . And 
I won’t let you either.’’? Andrey Ivanovich spoke 
ardenfly and decidedly to the peasant. ‘‘Some 
rascals have been deceiving you country peo- 
ple. ... Your simplicity .. .’’ 

‘‘There are people who do not believe in God and 
the Saints,’’ said Avtonomov, with the greatest 
humility and composure. 

Andrey Ivanovich gritted his teeth and showed 
Avtonomov his fist, when the peasant was not look- 
ing. 


VIII 


About noon we reached my home in the same 
kind of a cart. This we had happened to meet at 
the edge of the city. The cart stopped at the gate. 
Our picturesque company attracted the attention 
of several passers-by, a thing that clearly annoyed 
Andrey Ivanovich. ... I asked my companion to 
come in and rest and have some tea. 

‘‘Thanks, I haven’t far to go,’’ answered the 

61 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








bootmaker coldly. He threw his wallet on his back 
and, then, without ceremony, he pointed at Avto- 
nomov. 

*‘Are you inviting him in?’’ 

‘‘Yes, I’m inviting Gennady Sergeyevich,’’ I 
answered. 

Andrey Ivanovich turned sharply and, without 
saying good-bye, he started down the street. 

Ivan Ivanovich looked desperately frightened, 
as if my invitation had caught him in a trap. He 
looked appealingly at Avtonomov, and shame at 
being present tortured his whole figure. Avtono- 
mov asked simply: 

‘Where are we going?’’ 

While the samovar was being heated, I asked the 
servants to gather up some superfluous clothes and 
linen and offered my companions a change of 
attire. Avtonomov at once consented, tied them 
all in one bundle and said: 

‘“We’ve got to have a bath... .”’ 

Of course, I did not object. Both wanderers 
came back from the bath transformed. Ivan Ivano- 
vich, in a coat which was too broad and trousers 
which were too long and with his thin hair, looked 
astonishingly like a woman in man’s clothes. As far 
as Avtonomov was concerned, he was not satisfied 
with the conventional amount of clothing, but he 

62 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








had put on everything which had been given him 
to choose from. He was wearing, consequently, a 
blue shirt, a blouse, two vests, and a coat. The 
shirt stuck up above the collar of the blouse and 
reached below it,—it was so much longer. The 
edge of the blouse was visible and the coat seemed 
to form a third layer. .. . At the tea table Ivan 
Ivanovich was so miserable that we let him take 
his cup into the kitchen, where he sat down in one 
corner and immediately won the sympathy of our 
cook. 

Avtonomov acted recklessly, called my mother 
signora and jumped up every minute in order to 
serve something. 

After tea he looked himself over from head to 
foot and said, with an air of satisfaction: 

‘‘In this costume my brother-in-law won’t be 
ashamed of me. . . . I’ll go see my sister. . . . She 
lives near here. May I leave my wallet in your 
hall, signora?’’ 

When he went to the gate, Ivan Ivanovich ran 
after him in terror. After a short conversation 
Avtonomov permitted the poor fellow to follow him 
at some distance. 

Ivan Ivanovich soon returned alone. His bird- 
like face beamed with surprise and delight. 

‘They received him,’’ he said, clearing his throat 

63 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








joyfully. ‘‘That’s the solemn truth. He really 
has a sister. And a brother-in-law. . . . Please go 
past, accidentally. ... Youll see it, too... As 
God is true, they’re sitting in a garden entertain- 
ing him... like a brother. His sister’s weeping 
froin Foy... .”” 

From the breast of the little wanderer came 
strange sounds like hysterical laughing and weep- 
ing. 

In an hour Avtonomov appeared, transfigured 
and triumphant. He came up to me, fervently 
grasped my hand, and pressed it till it hurt. 

‘““Threugh you I’ve found my relatives... . 
Wem <<. Tnat's 1! TH death... .”’ 

He pressed my hand still harder, then convul- 
sively released it and turned away. Apparently 
the brother-in-law, who was not without influence 
in the consistory, believed in Avtonomov’s refor- 
mation and decided to help him. It was also neces- 
sary to get certain papers from Uglich and... 

‘Back here again! My wanderings are ended, 


signor. . . . I won’t forsake you, Vanya... . Ill 
give you a corner and food. . . . Live. . . . I'll be 
responsible. ... You'll get quarters... also...”’ 


_ As I listened to this conversation, involuntary 
doubts crept into my mind, the more so as Avto- 
nomov had resumed his grandiloquent manner and 

64 


~ 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








kept using more and more frequently the word 
signor.... 

Towards evening the two set out ‘‘for Uglich to 
get the papers.’? Avtonomov gave me a solemn 
promise to return in a week ‘“‘to begin his new 
life.’’ 

‘Ts this all that was necessary for this ‘mir- 
acle?’ ’’ I thought doubtfully.... 


Ix 


The weather suddenly changed.... A won- 
derful early spring seemed to be replaced by 
late, cold autumn. ... It rained hard for days 
and the wind howled amid the rain and the fog. 

One cold morning of this kind I awoke late and 
was trying to guess the time. when I heard a light 
noise and a strange whistle in the hall by the door. 
I opened and saw some living creature in a dark 
corner. Yes! it was Ivan Ivanovich. He trembled 
all over, was blue, and looked at me with his ap- 
pealing, timid eyes. It was the look of a frightened 
animal near its end. 

**Your weakness again?’’ I asked kindly. 

‘*Yes,’’ he answered humbly and briefly, and he 
started to straighten his clothing. He was again 
wearing an impossible cassock, he had no hat, and 
on his bare feet were rough shoes, 

65 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Avtonomov soon made his appearance. He was 
drunk and unpleasantly bold. He spoke in af- 
fectedly grandiloquent phrases, acted like an old 
friend, and from time to time in his reminiscences 
of our wanderings he made spicy allusions to a 
certain soldier’s wife. . . . In his eyes gleamed an 
evil passion and in him I recognized again the 
preacher in the monastery courtyard,—and readi- 
ness for any evil deed. He never said a word about 
his visit to his sister... . 

‘‘Listen ... Dearie,...’’? he turned to the 
maid. ... ‘‘The other time I left a cassock with 
you. ... It’s'still fit to be worn. . . . Your pres- 
ent was unlucky,’’ he added, looking impudently 
at me... . ‘*‘We were robbed near Uglich... 
and they took absolutely everything we had. A 
merchant cheated you on those felt shoes, that’s 
easy to see.... Cheap goods, cheap... . They 
fell all to pieces. . . .”’ 

He condescendingly patted my shoulder. 

Ivan Ivanovich looked at his protector reproach- 
fully. We parted quite coldly, but everyone in my 
house felt sincere sympathy and pity for Ivan Ivan- 
ovich. 

After that, from time to time, I heard from my 
accidental comrades. These messages were usually 
brought by people in cloaks and cassocks and with 

66 . 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








more or less clear indications of ‘‘weakness’’ they 
gave me greetings or notes and they showed how 
disillusioned they felt, when they saw the meagre- 
ness of the reward which they received. Once dur- 
ing the fair a fellow appeared totally drunk and 
very evil looking, but he handed me a note with as 
much mysterious familiarity as if it had been from 
a mutual friend and confidant. 

In the note a very shaky and uneven hand had 
scribbled: 

‘‘Dear friend. Receive the bearer as you would 
me. He is our friend and ean tell you everything; 
incidentally give him money and clothing. ... 
His trousers are pretty bad. , .. Gennady Avto- 
nomov.’’ 

One glance was enough to show that the agent 
was really in dire need of trousers. ... But in 
spite of his intoxication, his eyes quickly and curi- 
ously ran over the contents of my rooms, and they 
showed well the results of professional train- 

When he left, I heard an unpleasant noise and 
I had to run to the assistance of my good neighbors. 


x 


About two years passed, before I again met my 
former companions. 
67 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








One hot summer’s day, I had crossed the Volga 
on a ferry and a pair of horses was dragging us 
over the sands of the bank to the foot of a hill. 
The sun had set, but it was intolerably hot. It 
seemed as if whole waves of heat were being wafted 
from the gleaming river. Flies hung in clouds over 
the horses, the bells rang unevenly, and the wheels 
dragged in the deep sand. ... Half way up the 
hill a monastery nestled among the trees and 
as it looked down on the river out of the rising mist, 
it seemed to be suspended in midair. 

Suddenly the coachman stopped his weary team 
at the very foot of the hill and ran along the bank. 
A quarter of a verst away on the rocky and pebbly 
edge of the river was a black group of people di- 
rectly between us and the sun. 

‘‘Something’s happened,’’ said my companion. 

T got out and also walked up to the place. 

A dead body was lying on the bare bank, against 
which the water was splashing lazily. When I 
came nearer, I recognized in it my old acquaint- 
ance: the little wanderer was lying in his cassock, 
on his stomach, with outstretched hands and with 
his head turned at an unnatural angle. He was 
pale as death; his black hair had fallen over his 
forehead and temples, and his mouth was half 
open. I involuntarily recalled that face, as it was 

68 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








when it was filled with childish delight over the 
singing of the little bird on the hilltop. With his 
long, sharp nose and his open mouth,—he reminded 
me greatly of a tortured and stifled bird. 

Avtonomov sat swaying back and forth beside 
him and seemed frightened. There was a percep- 
tible odor of wine in the air... . 

Glancing at the pepole who were coming up and 
not recognizing me, he suddenly pulled the dead 
body. 

**Get up, comrade, it’s time to be going.... A 
wanderer’s fate is to wander always.”’ 

He spoke in a very bombastic manner, but he 
rose uncertainly. ... 

*‘Don’t you want to? Look, Vanya, I’ll leave 
you! I'll go off alone... .’’ 

A village chief, with a medal on his chest, hur- 
ried up to the group and laid one hand on Avtono- 
mov’s shoulder. 

*‘Stop, don’t go away. . . . You’ve got to make 
a statement. ... What sort of people are you?’’ 

Avtonomov, with ironical humility, took off his 
cap and bowed. 

‘Please be so kind, your village excellency. .. .’’ 

Above our heads sounded a peal of the bell. The 
monks were being summoned to vespers. The peal 
echoed, disturbed the heated air, and rolled above 

69 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








the leafy tops of the oaks and black poplars beside 
the monastery and as it died away, it fell to the 
sleepy river. The sound increased again, as it 
struck the water, and a keen eye could almost follow 
its flight to the other bank, to the bluish, mist- 
wrapped meadows. 

All removed their hats. Avtonomov turned to- 
ward the sound and shook his fist in the air. 

‘‘Listen, Vanya,’’ he said, ‘‘ your father superior 
is calling you.... Your benefactor. ... Now 
he’ll receive you, I know... .”’ 

Peal after peal, rapid and repeated, ringing and 
quavering, fell down upon the river solemnly and 
quietly. ... 


70 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 


(From THE Diary oF A REPORTER) 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 
(FROM THE DIARY OF A REPORTER) 
p 


r E IN N-sk on the twentieth. Session of dis- 
r trict court. Details in letter. Editor.’’ 

I looked at my watch and then went to inquire 
about the trains. I hoped that I could not catch 
the night train at the station, which was some ten 
versts from the city where I had just finished an- 
other piece of reporting. I saw already the laconic 
and business-like answer: ‘‘Telegram delayed, 
cannot arrive on twentieth.’’ Unfortunately the 
time-table and my watch decided differently. I 
had three hours to pack and get to the station. 
That was time enough. 

About 11 o’clock on a warm summer evening a 
coachman landed me at the station; the lights could 
be seen for a great distance. I got there just in 
time; the train was waiting. 

Directly opposite the entrance there was a car 
with the windows open. It was not filled and some 
intelligent-appearing men were playing cards. I 

73 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








imagined that they were members of the court going 
to the session, and I decided to look for a place 
elsewhere. This was no easy task but I finally 
succeeded. The train was just starting when, with 
my bag in my hand, I entered a second-class com- 
partment in which there were three passengers. 

T sat down by the window, through which entered 
the freshness of the summer night, and soon there 
were flying past me ends of sleepers, hills, roaring 
bridges, buildings, fields bathed in the moonlight, 
—all as if carried by-a high wind. I was tired 
and sad. I thought how my life was flying in the 
same way, from bridge to bridge, from station to 
station, from city to city, from fire to law court. 
.. . And that I could never write for any paper 
what the editor wanted. And all that I would 
write the next day would be dry and uninteresting. 

These were not cheerful thoughts. I tore myself 
away from them and began to listen to the con- 
versation of my fellow travelers. 


II 


My nearest neighbor was sleeping contentedly, 
letting me stretch ont as I,could. Opposite me one 
passenger was lying down and another was sitting 
by the window. They kept on with the conversa- 
tion they had already commenced. 


74 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








‘‘Let’s imagine,’’ said the one who was lying 
down, ‘‘that I am a man who is not superstitious. 
. . . But yet’’ (he yawned pleasantly and slowly) 
‘‘it cannot be denied that there is much, so to 
speak, unknown,—isn’t that so? ... Let’s sup- 
pose, the peasants . . . country naivete and super- 
stition. But take a paper... .’’ 

«Well, a paper. Superstition is for peasants, 
but this is for the papers. A peasant, simple fellow, 
sees a primitive devil with horns and breathing 
fire. He’s frightened....A reporter sees a 
figure from the ballet. . . .’’ 

The gentleman who admitted that there was 
*‘much unknown’’ yawned again. 

**Yes,’’? he said with a somewhat scientific air, 
‘‘that is true; fears disappear with the develop- 
ment of culture and education. .. .”’ 

His companion did not reply, but later said 
thoughtfully : 

‘‘Disappear? . . . Do you remember in Tolstoy : 
Anna Karenina and Vronsky have the identical 
dream: a peasant, an ordinary laborer ‘works in 
steel’? and speaks French. . . . Both wake up in 
terror. . . . What’s so terrible there? Of course, 
it’s a little strange for a peasant to speak French. 
But, granted. . . . Nevertheless, in a given com- 
bination of circumstances, a picture which is not 

75 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








frightful will terrify you. . . . Take the Brothers 
Karamazov of Dostoyevsky. .. . We’ve got there 
an urban devil. . . . You remember, of course. . . .’’ 

**No, I don’t. . . . You know, Pavel Semenovich, 
I’m an instructor of mathematics. .. .”’ 

**Oh, excuse me. ... I thought... . Yes, I re- 
member: he was a certain man, or, better yet, a 
certain type of Russian gentleman, quite well along 
in years, with his hair and pointed beard rather 
gray. ... His,linen and necktie, you know, were 
like those of any other stylish gentleman, but his 
linen was rather dirty and his necktie frayed. 
To sum up, ‘He looked like a man of taste with 
slender financial resources. .. .’”’ 

‘<That’s a fine devil! A mere sharper, and 
they’re common enough,’’ remarked the mathe- 
matician. 

‘Yes, I know there’s a lot of them. ... But 
it’s frightful and it’s that, just because it’s so 
common; that same poor necktie, linen, and coat. 
. . . If it were only frayed, it would be like yours 
or mine... .”’’ 

**All right, Pavel Semenovich. . . . Excuse me, 
but you have a strange philosophy.’’ 

The mathematician seemed rather insulted. 
Pavel Semenovich turned towards the light, and I 
had a good view of his broad face, straight brows 

76 


ISN’T 17 TERRIBLE? 








and gray, thoughtful eyes hidden under his stern 
forehead. 

Both paused. For a little while you, could 
hear only the hurried roar of the train. Then 
Pavel Semenovich began again in his even 
voice. 

‘* At the station of N-sk I happened, you know, — 
to walk up toward the engine. I’m a little ac- 
quainted with the engineer. ...A chronically 
sleepy individual with swollen eyes.’’ 

‘‘Yes?’’ asked his companion indifferently, and 
not trying to conceal his feelings. 

*‘Certainly. . . . A natural condition. He hadn’t 
slept for thirty-six hours.’’ 

**M-n, yes. . . . That is a long while.’ 

‘‘T thought so too: we fall asleep. . . . The train 
is flying at full speed. . . . And it’s run by a man 
who is almost stupefied. . . .”’ 

His companion fidgeted a little. 

‘““What an idea! ..% Really, damnation... . 
You should have told the chief of the station. . . .”’ 

‘“What for? .. . He’d laugh! A common thing. 
You might almost call it the system. In Peters- 
burg there’s a gentleman sitting in some office. .. . 
He’s got a board in front of him with numbers 
on it. Arrival. ... Departure.... And _ the 
engineers are listed .too.... Pay—so much. 

77 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Versts—so many. Versts—that’s the length of 
the run,—a-useful number, profitable, steady, that 
can be increased. The pay for the men is minus. 
. . . And this fellow just cracks his head, thinking 
how to run the largest number of miles on the 
smallest number of engineers. Or even make the 
distance larger than ever. . . . It’s a sort of silent 
game with numbers, so to speak. .. . And a most 
ordinary chap bothers with it.... He wears a 
poor coat and necktie, and he looks respectable. 
... A good friend and a fine husband. ... He 
loves his child and gives presents to his wife on | 
holidays. . . . His job is harmless, and he merely 
decides simple questions. The result is that sleep 
kills people. . . . And across the fields and through 
the ravines of our beloved country on such moon- 
light nights as this trains tear along like this, and 
the watch is kept by the sleepy, swollen eyes of 
the man who is responsible for hundreds of lives. 
>. . A moment’s slumber. .. .”’ 

The legs of the mathematician in their check- 
ered trousers stirred: he got up from his seat in 
the shadow and sat down on a bench. . . . His fat, 
expressionless face, with its thick, clipped mus- 
tache, made you uneasy. 

‘‘Stop your croaking, for heaven’s sake,’’ he 
said angrily. ‘‘However you argue, the result is 

78 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








the same, devil take it....I wanted to fall 
asleep... .”’ 

Pavel Semenovich looked at him in surprise. 

‘*What’s the matter?’’ he said. ‘‘ Are you crazy? 
We'll get there all right, if God wills. I merely 
want to point out how the terrible and the usual 
are combined. . . . Economy is the most ordinary 
idea of life. . . . But sometimes it involves death. 
. .. It is even measurable by the law of proba- 
bility. ....” 

The mathematician, still more angry, took out 
his cigar case and said, as he began to smoke: 

“No, you’re right: the devil knows: the rascal’ll 
fall asleep, and all at once. . . . These beasts of 
railroad men. . . . O, let’s talk of something else. 
The devil take these fears. . . . Are you still vege- 
tating in Tikhodol? ... You’ve stuck there a 
long time... .”’ 

‘*Yes.’’ answered Pavel Semenovich, a little em- 
barrassed. ‘‘It’s such a wretched place. It’s just 
like living in a yoke. ... A teacher, prosecutor, 
excise official... When you once land there, 
you’re forgotten, and removed from the lists of 
the living. .. .’’ 

‘“Yes. ... It is an awful place. . . . It’s dead- 
ening. ... Why, there’s not even a club there. 
And the mud is unendurable.’’ 

79 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








“‘There’s a club now, at least that’s what we 
eall it. . . . And there are a few stretches of pave- 
ment. . . . Lighting, especially in the centre of the 
town. ... But, I’ll confess, I live on the edge, 
and don’t make much use of these conveniences.’’ 

‘“Where do you live?”’ 

‘With Budnikov, in the suburbs.”’ 

‘‘Budnikov? Semen Nikolayevich? Just think, 
I lived in that section myself: with Father Poli- 
dorov. .. . Of course, I met Budnikov! A fine 
man, well educated, but rather—filled with ideas?’’ 

‘“Yes, with a few notions... .’’ 

‘No, not that. ...I said ideas. But notions. 
What? None special, I think.’’ 

‘‘No, nothing special, but just the same: he used 
to keep valuable papers in a mattress. . . .”’ 

‘“Why, I never knew that. But when I met 
him he made a queer impression on me. He was 
so fresh and original. . . . A house owner, and all 
of a sudden he went to living in two rooms without 
servants. . . . No, I remember, he had a kind of 
porter... .47" 

h(E: | ( a 

‘“‘That’s right, that’s right. Gavrilo, a little 
fellow with white eyebrows? Yes? That’s right. 
. . . I remember I liked to look at his face: such 
a good-natured snout. I almost thought the master 


80 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








was part workman. ... Who is he? Is he always 
_ that way ?’’ 

Pavel Semenovich said nothing for a few min- 
utes. He then looked at his companion with some 
embarrassment and replied: 

**Y-yes, you’re right. ... That actually hap- 
pened. . . . Semen Nikolayevich . . . and Gavrilo. 
. . - Both together... .”’ 

**Yes, I remember. . . .”’ 

‘‘He was a fine man for our city. . . . Educated, 
independent, with ideas. . . . He went to the uni- 
versity but never finished because of some escapade. 
. .- He once spoke of it as if he had made an 
unfortunate venture into love. ‘My heart was 
broken,’ he said. On the other hand I know that 
he corresponded with a friend in some outlandish 
place. That shows there was something behind it. 
. .. His father, he said, was a usurer, but not a 
malicious one. This caused a row between father 
and son. The young student didn’t approve of 
it and wouldn’t touch the money, but lived by 
teaching.... When the father died, Semen 
Nikolayevich came and inherited the property. He 
said to some one: ‘I don’t want it. ... This is 
owed to society.” Then I don’t know what hap- 
pened. ... The house, land, long-term leases, a 
lawsuit. . , . He carried it on one, two, three years, 


81 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








and then got to like it. Many still remember how 
he said: ‘I’ll finish the lawsuit with these curs and 
settle up. ... I won’t stay a day longer in this 
confounded hole.’ ... But it’s the usual story. 
. . . We had a teacher once, a zodlogist, who came 
to our gymnasium and said bluntly: ‘As soon as 
I write my dissertation, I’ll get out of the 
swamp!’ ”’ 

‘““That’s Kallistov, isn’t it?’’ asked the mathe- 
matician, with great interest. The narrator waved 
assent. 

‘*He’s still writing it. He married; had three 
children. . . . That’s just the way with Semen 
Nikolayevich Budnikov. He’s been making a dis- 
sertation of his life, so to speak. He began to 
enjoy this lawsuit. Challenges, protests, cassation, 
the whole game. .... And he kept writing himself 
without consulting lawers. . . . Then, after a while, 
he commenced to build a new house. When I got to 
know him, he was already a lucky, middle-aged 
bachelor, with a reddish face, and such a pleasant, 
quiet, substantial and sleepy voice. Then he had 
a few peculiarities. He sometimes used to come 
to see me, especially when it was time to pay my 
rent. ... This was due on the twentieth. That 
meant that on the twentieth he used to come at 
eight o’clock in the evening and drink two cups 

82 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 





of tea with rum in it. No more, no less! In each 
cup two spoonfuls of rum and one of sugar. I got 
to look at this as an addition to my rent. He 
did the same with all his lodgers,—only some with 
and some without rum. The rents were all differ- 
ent, about twenty in his four houses (one in the city 
was quite large). ... That made forty cups of 
tea. . . . He seemed as if he had included that in 
his budget and marked it down. . . . Sometimes, 
‘I didn’t find so and so at home, but he brought 
the money the next day. Still owing, two cups 
of tea.’ ”’ 

‘**Really?’’ laughed Petr Petrovich. ‘‘He never 
reasoned that way! Why do you think so?’’ 

‘‘For this reason. At first this was an unex- 
pected characteristic, but it got to be believed, 
although in your time maybe it didn’t exist. The 
tenants began to say: you know M. Budnikov is 
an economical man. That was meant well and 
even as a sign of approval. But it suddenly 
reacted on Budnikov. . .. You understand? The 
unintelligible man began to develop a special in- 
telligible trait. . . . It became clearer and clearer. 
All believed, for example, that M. Budnikov kept 
no servants. Gavrilo was the porter of the house 
where I lived; he used to clean the clothes of the 
different people, fix the samovars, and run errands. 

83 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 











Sometimes the master and servant used to sit side 
by side and clean shoes, the porter for the tenants, 
Budnikov for himself. Then M. Budnikov got a 
horse. No special need for him to do it. As a 
luxury, he’d ride twice a week to a farm near the 
city. The rest of the time fhe horse was free. 
Gavrilo wasn’t busy all the time either. ... The 
result was—the horse was put at Gavrilo’s disposal, 
and he used to ride down town. Gavrilo had noth- 
ing against this arrangement, because he considered 
incessant work his special duty. You know there’s 
a sort of talent for everything, and I thought once 
that Gavrilo was a kind of genius in the field of 
muscular labor. ... Easy motioned,—unwearied 
freshness. Sometimes at night he wouldn’t sleep. 
Look out of the window and you’d see Gavrilo 
sweeping the street or cleaning the ditches. It 
meant—he’d gone to bed and then remembered he 
hadn’t swept all the pavement the last thing. So 
he’d go and clean it. And this was really beau- 
tiful.’’ 

‘*Yes,’’ said the mathematician, ‘‘that’s a good 
description of the man. I remember I liked to 
look at him,—he seemed rather attractive.’’ 

‘‘Spiritual poise is always beautiful, and he did 
his duty without speculating about his relation to 
his master.... And that was a fine thing, you 

84 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 


tema 


know,—their mutual relations. One used his 
muscles admirably. The other gave reason and 
rational meaning to it. . . . He saw that the time 
was not all filled . . . and he found a new occu- 
pation. ... There was a sort of balancing of 
interests, almost an idyl.... Almost before 
dawn Gavrilo was at work. M. Budnikov also got 
up early. They said good morning with a mani- 
festly pleasant feeling. Then M. Budnikov either 
went to work in his garden or went around his 
‘estate’ scattered through the city. Poverty gets 
up early, and he went mornings to poverty’s quar- 
ters. .. . Then he’d come back and say: 

** ‘Now harness up, Gavrilo, and I’ll finish clean- 
ing up. ... The officials are just going to their 
offices. You may meet some one... .’’ 

‘At this time he considered himself neither a 
Tolstoyan nor a deliberate simplifier. ... He often 
spoke of the abnormality of our lives, of the neces- 
sity of paying our debt to the laboring man, of the 
advantages of physical labor. ‘See, I’m working,’ 
he’d say to any one who caught him busied with 
axe or spade. ‘I’m helping my neighbor, my 
porter, with his work.’ It was hard to tell whether 
he was talking ironically or seriously. ... At 
noon Gavrilo’d come back and put his horse in 
the stable, and M. Budnikov would go off on busi- 

85 








BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








ness and make polite remarks to his tenants about 
a broken fence or a piece of plaster knocked down 
by children’s balls. . . . He often came back with 
one or two beggars. They had asked him for alms 
on the street and he’d offered ‘assistance through 
toil.’ . . . Of course, the rogues ran off shame- 
fully, but M. Budnikov took especial pleasure in 
working, either alone or with Gavrilo. All the 
beggars in the city soon got to know him and 
bowed with a friendly smile, but did not ask for 
money. ‘Why can’t you see what’s good for you, 
my friends?’ he’d say meaningly. I must say 
that a ‘life of toil’ did bring him manifest personal 
benefits; his ruddy color was absolutely evident, 
even, and healthy. His face was always quiet and 
placid, and almost like Gavrilo’s....It had 
nothing malicious or strange in it.’’ 

*‘T see, you’re back on your old theme!’’ said 
the mathematician, standing up and striking his 
companion’s shoulder. ‘‘Of course, nothing ter- 
rible....I’m going out here.... Hight mim- 
utes’ wait.’’ 

The train slowed down and stopped. 


III 


Pavel Semenovich, thus left without an audience, 
looked around in despair. Soon his gray eyes met 
86 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








mine. In his gaze I noticed an obstinate idea like 
that of a maniac. ... 

*““You ... understand?’’ he said frankly, 
wholly undisturbed by the fact that he was talking 
to a stranger. 

**T think so,’’ I answered. 

**Good,’’ he said, with evident satisfaction, and 
then he went on, as if he were talking to the same 
person. 

*“‘T had, you know, a school friend named 
Kalugin, Petr Petrovich. As a young man he was 
infected with the tendencies of his age, but he 
was a rare type. He said little. He preferred 
to listen, and he watched how others failed, and he 
tried, as is said, to turn the wheel of history. 
. . » But you could feel his rapture and his devo- 
tion in his silence. ... He finally came to the 
conelusion: ‘Everything is good and extraordi- 
narily fine, but there is no lever. Money is the 
lever. And you can’t do a thing without a hundred 
thousand.’ You know, he succeeded in convincing 
several of his friends of this and they formed a 
small savings association. Of course, nothing 
came of it: one simply got tired; fate placed an- 
other too far from the source of gain. But Petr 
Petrovich held on and won. He wasn’t brilliant, 
but he was of a good character, and that kind of 

87 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN ’ 








men get along well in business. He first went into 
some sort of an institution along the Volga. It 
wasn’t a bank nor a loan association. To get 
ahead, he didn’t despise even this, and all of a 
sudden he put new life into it, as they say. In 
three years’ time, he was making about six thou- 
sand a year. ... He put the question this way: 
‘Five twenties make a hundred! I’ll keep one 
thousand a year and put five thousand away for 
the cause. In twenty years my lever’ll be ready.’ 
More than that, he did it. Of course he had to 
have a self-sacrificing character. And system! 
First, to avoid all foolish accidents, he left his old 
friends ‘for a time,’—those who tried to catch the 
wheel of history in their bare hands. ‘I’ve got 
my problem. . . . Ingratitude . . . accidental notes 
. . . do me the favor, it’s not necessary.’.. And 
he held out. He mastered his life and counted 
every detail. Nothing—except making money! 
He got up every day, not like Budnikov at seven 
o’clock, but at thirteen minutes to seven. Second 
by second! He gave up his personal life... . Up 
to that time he had had only one pleasure: he got 
intimate with a girl, but on a free basis. They gave 
each other their word ‘not to bind each other.’ 
What a stupid phrase! A child gave its word to 
no one.... It just appeared and demanded its 
88 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 





rights....She was glad....He was angry. 
This unpleasant event might be repeated, he 
thought, and, with an eye on his great cause, he 
determined to enjoy his freedom. ‘I’ll give the 
child a certain sum,’ he said, ‘even though it inter- 
feres with my great cause.’ ... The woman also 
had character. She never touched a cent of the 
money, but snatched up the child,—and away for- 
ever. .. . How he felt afterwards, no one knows, 
but he worked harder than ever to save money. 
.. . After various successes and failures, after 
twenty years, during which he regularly got up at 
thirteen minutes to seven, he congratulated him- 
self on his success. He had a hundred thousand. 
He went to his work at the usual time, walked into 
the office of his superior and said: ‘I’ll leave in 
two months.’ They opened their mouths in amaze- 
ment. ‘Are you crazy? Why? Can we raise 
your salary? Give you a share of the profits?’ No! 
He told why, and in two months he went to Moscow 
to take up his old life. And he had a hundred 
thousand in his pocket.’’ 

‘Oh, ho!’’ said Petr Petrovich, who just then 
eame back from the restaurant... . ‘‘Still talk- 
ing about Budnikov?’’ 

‘*No,’’? answered Pavel Semenovich. ‘‘I was 


talking about some one else.’’ 
89 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘Some one else! Go on, I don’t care. ... Go 
on with the hundred thousand. I hope that’s not 
terrible... .’? 

His voice sounded as if it were mocking. Pavel 
Semenovich looked at him in mild surprise and 
turned to me. 

**Yes, it’s like this... . He went to Moscow,— 
to his past, you see. ... He thought life would 
wait, till he got rich. ... He’d go to the same 
newspaper corner, find the same arguments and 
the same people, and they’d be grabbing at the 
wheel of history with their hands as ever.... 
He’d show his lever... . ‘Permit me! You have 
fine ideas. . . . Here’s my money to carry them 
out.’ But there wasn’t a soul to offer it to; there 
were other people in the corner, and they talked 
differently. The others had perished under the 
wheel of history, or had given up. .. . Life is like 
a train. ... If you leave the station for a time, 
when you come back the train’s gone. Sometimes 
you can’t even find the station. You understand 
this tragedy, my friend?”’ 

‘“‘But, excuse me,’’ said Petr Petrovich. ‘‘A 
hundred thousand! Free! Many a man will be 
willing to have this tragedy... .’’ 

‘‘Yes? But this man, I tell you, was sincere.’’ 

‘“What of it?’’ 

90 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








‘‘Just this. ... He wandered around among 
his old and new friends and kept looking for the 
train....He disgusted every one.... The 
thing for which he had given his own life and 
another’s was unintelligible; it’s just like losing 
a finger when you don’t know what for. You 
understand,—various, respectable affairs like a 
‘people’s home’ or a paper or an ‘ideal book store’ 
don’t satisfy a seventy-year-old man. ... He’s 
ready then to give up interest and capital. .. .’’ 

‘*But at six per cent you can live modestly. ... 
You ean live!’’ 

*““Of course. ... But if you want to do some- 
thing. .. . This was an act of heroism. ... He 
gave his life as others do theirs. . . . And not only 
his. . . . Would you do that for a little miserly 
interest? ... And there was no reason for his 
heroism. . . . To sum up, one fine day they found 
him in a lonely room in a hotel with a bullet in 
his head. . . . And he had gotten rid of his money 
somehow, quickly and quietly. . . . I saw him the 
day before at a meeting of some society. No one 
noticed him especially. They greeted him and 
passed on; he was but a respectable man. Of a 
strong character and the best of intentions. But 
unusually dull!’’ 

‘*H-m, yes!’’ said the mathematician, ‘‘There 

91 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








are such cranks.’? And he lay down to sleep. 
His face, with its fat, clipped mustache, again 
disappeared in the shadow, and you could see only 
his feet and his checkered trousers. ‘‘I think,’’ he 
growled from his corner, ‘‘that Budnikov is more 
interesting. You’re not through with him... .”’ 

“‘Yes....I1... excuse me,—it was all due to 
chance. ...I1 sat up all night recently....I 
was reading Budnikov’s correspondence with his 
‘distant’ friend. Believe me, I could not tear my- 
self away, and you never would think that it was 
written by that same Semen Nikolayevich Bud- 
nikov, who drank tea and rum in my rooms, sent 
Gavrilo downtown, and whose soul imperceptibly, 
but almost before my eyes, dried up and grew 
barren in our little house. ... And it remained, 
so to speak, without reverence for anything.’’ 


IV 


He stopped and looked at me bashfully and 
questioningly, as if he felt that he had said some- 
thing which was not proper for a railroad con- 
versation. He was somewhat startled when the 
mathematician exhaled a thick cloud of smoke from 
his dark corner and said: 

‘*Pavel Semenovich, I see you really are a 

92 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








crank. Isn’t that so? ... Wonderful!...A 
man has a hundred thousand and shoots himself! 
Another lives as he likes, so to speak, healthy and 
ruddy. ... A quiet soul.... Safe. ... Is that 
strange? ... By heavens, it’s impossible... . 
Good night. . . . It’s time to go to sleep. Nothing, 
nothing! ... You won’t disturb me by talking. 
oo « A won't Listes.” .°. ?? 

He turned to the wall. 

Pavel Semenovich modestly and questioningly 
looked at me with his naive gray eyes, and began 
in a lower tone: 

‘‘There’s a street in Tikhodol called Bolotnaya 
(Swamp Street). They built a house on it near 
me. ... New and of fresh wood... . The first 
year it shone so, and then it lost its freshness. 
It got covered with that especial dirt and weath- 
ering and rubbish. Then it got the same color as 
the old stables and sheds and you couldn’t tell it 
from them. Now they say it’s haunted. ... The 
people suddenly said that Budnikov had robbed a 
woman.,’’ 

‘‘That’s absolute nonsense,’’ called the mathe- 
matician. ‘‘I’ll never believe that Budnikov was 
a robber. That’s some stupid rumor.’’ 

Pavel Semenovich smiled sadly and rather dis- 
tractedly : 

93 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘‘That’s what he was. A robber! ... A robber 
is the word,... precisely! But it was just a 
little personal . . . tangle with rather vague out- 
lines. . . . Yousee. . . . I must tell you that since 
your time a mother and daughter moved in... . 
The women were simple and very poor and M? 
Budnikov was their protector and friend. They 
ran in debt for a long time, and he—always so 
strict in affairs of this kind—stood it, and even 
gave them money. For the doctor or for better 
food, when one was sick. Finally the old woman 
died and Yelena became an orphan. M. Budnikov 
became very sympathetic, gave her a pleasant 
little home, and got her work; she sewed,—got 
along somehow. ... Then she became a sort of 
housekeeper for M. Budnikov, and then,—people 
began to say that their relations became more 
intimate. + s.7’ 

“Oh, oh!’’ yawned the mathematician. ‘‘They 
didn’t need me for that. . . . Was she pretty?’’ 

*“Yes, rather pretty; fat, with flowing graceful 
movements and mild eyes. They said she was 
stupid. But, if she was, a woman’s stupidity is 
often very peculiar. ... A naive and sleeping 
innocence of soul. She felt her situation very 
keenly. As is said in Uspensky, she was all shame. 
. .. M. Budnikov tried to teach her and lift her 

94 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








up, so to speak, to his level. She seemed incapable 
of it. She sat usually with a book, spelled it out 
with her fingers, and her face was interested like 
a child’s. She seemed to become dull and stupid 
when Budnikov was around. He got sick of her 
actions and then of Yelena, especially as other 
things took up his attention. But there was a 
time when he almost loved her. At least there 
were indications of it. In a word, the breach was 
not easy for him,—his conscience troubled him 
and he wanted to silence it. He finally decided 
to give her a ticket of the domestic lottery... . 
He ealled her, took out three tickets, put 
them on the table, placed his hand on them, and 
said: 

** ‘Look here, Yelena. One of these tickets may 
win you two hundred thousand. Do you under- 
stand 2?’ 

‘‘Of course she didn’t understand well. She 
couldn’t imagine so large a sum, but he went on: 

** “Now, I’ll give you one. This paper is worth 
365 rubles, but don’t sell it.... Take it and 
may you be lucky... .’ 

‘*She didn’t take it, but huddled up, as if she 
were afraid. ‘All right,’ said M. Budnikov. ‘Give 
me your hand and take this paper.’ He took 
one of the tickets and guided her hand in making 

95 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








two pencil strokes sharply and heavily. His mind 
was clearly made up.... He gave it outright 
with all the results, we may say. ‘You see,’ he 
said, ‘this is yours, and if you win two hundred 
thousand, they’ll be yours too.’ He placed it back 
on the table. She reached out her hand and put 
in her bosom a paper with the number of the 
ticket.’ 

‘*Really?’’ asked the mathematician. 

*“Yea. ...1¢ had to happen so. ... That 
machine was working in Petersburg, throwing out 
one number after another. ... Children’s hands 
pick them up.... And one of these tickets 
won.’”’ 

‘‘Two hundred thousand?’’ asked the mathe- 
matician, with great interest; apparently he had 
forgotten about sleeping. 

‘“Not two hundred, but seventy-five... . Dur- 
ing March, M. Budnikov looked at the list of 
drawings and saw that his number had won a 
large prize. Zero, again zero... 318 and 32. 
Suddenly he remembered that he had given one 
ticket to Yelena. ... He also remembered that 
there were two lines on the first. He had three 
in a row: 317, 318 and 319. That means 317.... 
He got out the tickets and looked: there were 
two lines on 317. Yelena had won... .’’ 


96 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








‘‘The devil,’’ exclaimed the mathematician, rais- 
ing himself a little. ‘‘That’s luck!’’ ; 

‘‘Yes, it was. And she was so stupid. The 
lines were on that number, when he thought that 
he would give her another....A mistake, a 
mechanical wave of the hand, mere chance... . 
And, because of this chance, Yelena, a stupid 
woman who understood nothing and did not know 
what to do with money, would take from him... 
him, M. Budnikov, take away, so to speak, a large 
sum of money. That was foolish, wasn’t it? He 
was educated, had an aim in his life, or had had. 
... He might again. He would perhaps have 
used the money for some good cause. He would 
write again to his friend and ask his advice... . 
But she... she? A beast with a round form and 
beautiful eyes, which didn’t even show clearly 
what was in them: the stupidity of a calf or the 
innocence of a youth who had not yet grown to 
conscious life....Do you understand?.. . It 
was so natural. . . . Any one in Budnikov’s place, 
you...I1... even Petr Petrovich, would have 
felt the same way... .’’ 

Petr Petrovich made some sort of an indistinct 
sound, which was susceptible of different inter- 
pretations. 

‘‘No?”’ said Pavel Semenovich. ‘‘Excuse me. 


97 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








. . . I’m speaking about myself. . . . My thoughts 
or rather my inclinations would have been the 
same, perhaps in the subconscious realm. . . . Be- 
cause . . . knowledge and all restraining influ- 
ences are a sort of bark, a thin cover under which 
purely egoistic, primal and animal desires live 
and move. ... If they find a weak spot... .” 

‘‘Fine, fine,’? laughed Petr Petrovich conde- 
scendingly, and I thought that he winked at me 
from his dark corner. ‘‘Let’s get back to Bud- 
nikov. ... What did he do? Pay it...and 
that’s all.’’ 

‘‘ Apparently, yes; because he wanted to settle 
the question and was a little afraid, he called 
Yelena and congratulated her on winning. Then, 
apparently wishing to make use of a favorable 
opportunity, he hinted: ‘When we separate, you’ll 
be all right.” Then he got angry... .’’ 

‘“What for?’’ 

*‘T think, because she was such a fool. If she’d 
chosen then, she probably wouldn’t have taken 
that number. But now it happened because of 
her folly. An orderly and wise man lost that 
money. That’s what I imagine from Yelena’s 
story. ...‘He ran from one corner to another 
and found fault with me.’.. .’’ 

‘““What of her? Glad, of course?’’ 

98 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








*‘N-no. ... She was frightened and began to 
weep. He got angry and she cried and he be- 
came still more angry.”’ 

‘*Really? What a fool!’’ 

**Y-yes.... I’ve already explained: I don’t 
eall her wise, but weeping. ... No, it wasn’t 
foolishness. . . . When she told it to me after- 
wards ... she got to this point, looked at me 
with her clear, bird-like eyes, and burst into tears. 
Even now I can’t forget those eyes. . . . Foolish- 
ness, perhaps, but there’s foolishness and foolish- 
ness. It wasn’t clear knowledge and calculation 
about the situation. But in those blue eyes there 
was something very deep,—just as if a true in- 
stinct shone in them. ... Those foolish tears, 
perhaps, were the only correct thing at that time. 
. .. 1 dare to say,—the wisest thing in the whole 
confused story. . . . Somewhere, not far off, was 
hidden the solution, like a secret door... .”’ 

‘Fine, fine. . . . Go on!’’ 

‘‘Next, . . . M. Budnikov looked a long time 
intently at the foolish woman. Then he sat down 
beside her, put his arms around her, and, for 
the first time after the perceptible cooling of their 
relations, he asked her not to go to her rooms, but 
to spend the night with him... . 

‘*So things went on for some time. Yelena 

99 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








bloomed. ... Her love was ‘foolish’; it was 
very direct. At first,—she told me herself,—M. 
Budnikov was repugnant to her. Later, after he 
had taken her, he dried her up, as she said. Such 
direct feminine natures do not separate feelings 
and facts, so to speak. Wherever you touch it, 
the whole complex reacts together. ... He came 
back to her; therefore, he loved her. . . . For two 
weeks she was so joyful and beautiful that every 
one looked at her,—glad of her limitless joy. ... 
But in two weeks M. Budnikov again cooled off. 
... A cold storm was raging in our yard.... 
Yelena’s eyes showed that she had been weep- 
ing... The neighbors grumbled and _ pitied. 
M. Budnikov was sullen. . . . Those two lines had 
sunk deep into the hearts of both and a third felt 
them. . . . The porter Gavrilo. .. .’’ 

‘“‘H-m! The whole story!’’ said Petr Petrovich, 
again getting up and sitting down beside Pavel 
Semenovich. ‘*‘Was he there? Did he learn she’d 
won?”’ 

‘“He knew nothing about it. I’ve spoken of him. 
A less clever person you could hardly imagine,— 
absolutely heavenly directness. . . . Sometimes he 
didn’t seem to be a man, but... what shall I 
say? ... a simple collection of muscles, partially 
conscious of their existence. He was constructed 

100 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








properly, harmoniously, rightly, and always in 
motion. And, in addition, two good human eyes 
looked at the whole world from the point of view 
of physical and moral indifference, so to speak. . . . 
Sometimes these eyes really gleamed with curiosity 
and such unconscious excellence that you actually 
felt jealous. Sometimes it seemed to me that if it 
wasn’t Gavrilo himself, there was something in him 
which understood M. Budinov, Yelena, and me. 
. . . He understood and smiled at us, just because 


he did understand. ... Suddenly the man be- 
eame confused....It began when Budnikov 
made up with Yelena and dropped her again. . . . 


To him she was an abandoned ‘master’s lady,’ a 
creature which inspired in him no special respect, 
and very probably his first advances seemed rather 
simple and rustic. She met these advances with 
deep hostility and anger. Then Gavrilo ‘began to 
think,’ that is, began to eat little, become slack 
in his work, grow thin, and generally to 
dry up. 

‘‘This lasted during the fall and winter. Bud- 
nikov finally grew cold to Yelena; she felt insulted 
and believed that he was ‘laughing’ at her... . 
Gavrilo’s character was rather spoiled and the old 
harmony between him and Budnikov disappeared. 
. . . And the ticket with the two lines on it lay 

101 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








in the table drawer and seemed forgotten by 
every one.... 

‘‘Spring came with everything in this condition. 
... For a while I lost sight of the little drama 
which was being enacted before my eyes... . My 
examinations were coming on; I was very tired 
and could not sleep. If you do fall asleep, you 
awake with a start and can’t get to sleep again. 
You light a eandle,—your books are on the table,— 
you begin to study. . . . Andit’ssunrise.... You 
go out on the steps, look at the sleeping street, the 
trees in the garden.... A sleepy coachman is 
going along the street; the trees are rustling 
faintly, as if they were shivering in the morning 
chill, . . . You envy the coachman, and even the 
trees... . You want rest and this concentrated 
unconscious life. . . . Then you go out in the gar- 
den... . Sit down on a bench and just get to 
sleep, when the sun shines in your eyes. There 
was just such a bench in a quiet corner by the 
stable wall. When the sunlight fell on it at seven 
o’clock you’d wake up, drink your tea, and go to 
your classes. 

“‘T went out one day at dawn and fell asleep 
on this bench. Suddenly I woke up as if some 
one had called me. The sun had scarcely risen 
very high and the bench was still in the shadow, 

102 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








What’s the matter, I wondered. . . . What woke 
me up? Suddenly I heard Yelena’s voice in 
Gavrilo’s stable. I wanted to get up and leave. 
. . . I don’t like to be an eavesdropper and it was 
rather unpleasant to hear the simple solution of 
Yelena’s drama. But, while I was getting ready to 
leave, the conversation continued and finally I 
didn’t go. . . . I just listened. 

*“ “You see I’ve come,’ said Yelena. . . . ‘What 
do you want?’ 

‘*Suddenly, with such a deep and simple grief, 
she added: 

***You’ve been torturing me... . 

*‘She said this... with such a sincere and 
heartfelt groan. Before, yes, and after, she always 
spoke formally to him, but that time...a 
woman’s heart, sick with shame and love, used 
the form of affection,—frankly, unconditionally, 
FPOOLY. us. 

‘“*Vou’ve tortured me, too, Yelena Petrovna,’ 
answered Gavrilo. ‘I’ve lost my strength. I’ve 
dried up. I can’t work and I can’t eat... .’ 

** “What are you going to do now?’ asked Yelena. 

‘**What?’ he said. ‘Marry you, of course.’ 

‘“‘For a few minutes neither spoke. Yelena 
seemed to be weeping softly. And yet that silence 
was wonderfully clear, simple, frank. ‘You see 

103 


? 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








the situation: you’re no match for me; I would 
have worked for Budnikov as well as I could, gone 
to the village, gotten a place, married and taken 
some good girl... . But that’s past; willy nilly 
I want you as you are... .’ 

‘**T’m lost,’ said Yelena softly. 

‘“*Why, Yelena Petrovna,’ answered Gavrilo, 
with a grim tenderness... . ‘I don’t see that 
you’re lost... . It’s just the same... .I can’t 


LIVE. s.0)s AKO! -& COPpses «5.4 E ean t eat. 43 
I’ve got no strength. .. .’ 
‘Yelena wept more loudly. . . . She was having 


a good ery. It seemed painful but healing. Gav- 
rilo said sternly: 

‘““Come, what are you going to do?... Are 
you coming?’ 

‘‘Yelena apparently exerted herself, stopped 
weeping, and answered the repeated question: 

*“*Do you. fear God, Gavrilo Stepanich?’ 

‘* “Why?’ asked Gavrilo. 

““*Vou won’t find fault with me?’ 

*“*No,’ he said, ‘I won’t find fault with you. 
And I won’t let any one else. If you’re serious 
in throwing this overboard forever. . . . Forever. 
ayo As a: YON 5” 

‘“Silence. I didn’t hear Yelena’s answer. I 
only imagined that she must have turned to the 

104 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








east, and perhaps there was an ikon in the room. 
. . . She crossed herself. . . . Then she suddenly 
took his head in her arms and I heard them kiss. 
That same instant Yelena ran out, rushed almost 
to the house, but she suddenly stopped, opened 
the gate, and came into the garden. 

‘‘Then she caught sight of me. . . . But it didn’t 
embarrass her. She walked up, stopped, and looked 
at me out of her happy eyes, and said: 

***TDo you always take a walk mornings? ... 
Priend . 4. 

‘‘Suddenly, overcome by her emotions, she came 
nearer, took hold of my shoulders, shook me un- 
ceremoniously, looked into my eyes, and laughed. 
.. . It was so naive. She felt that I had been 
listening and saw nothing bad in it. ... When 
Gavrilo came out with his broom and also entered 
the garden, she blushed and ran past him. Gavrilo 
looked after her with quiet joy, and then his gaze 
fell on me. He bowed with his habitual quiet 
politeness and commenced to sweep the path. He 
again showed that same beautiful and effortless 
play of healthy, free muscles. .. . And I remem- 
ber how the monastery bell sounded for early 
matins,—it was Sunday. Gavrilo stopped in a 
broad bay of the alley, took off his cap, held the 
broom in his left hand, and crossed himself with 

105 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








his right. The whole seemed to me so extraordi- 
narily bright and beautiful. The man stood in the 
centre of a world of light, where everything was 
very good, that is, all his relations to earth and 
heaven. . . . In a word, it was so soothing a sight 
that I went to my room and fell fast asleep after 
so many sleepless nights. There’s something heal- 
ing and ealming in honest human happiness. You 
know it sometimes occurs to me that we are all 
bound to be well and happy, because . . . you see 
. . . happiness is the highest possible condition of 
spiritual health. And health is contagious like 
disease. . . . We are so to speak open on all sides: 
to the sun, wind, and other things. Others enter 
us, and we them, without noticing it.... And 
that’s why——’”’ 

Pavel Semenovich suddenly stopped as he 
felt the fixed and cynical gaze of Petr Petro- 
vich. 

‘“Yes, yes! .. . Excuse me,’’ he said, ‘‘this is 
really a little unclear. . . .”’ 

“Tt is a little.. You’d better go on. Without 
philosophy. .. .”’ . 

‘<. . . M. Budnikov woke me up. It happened 
to be the twentieth. He came as usual, and as 
usual he drank two cups of tea with rum, but I 
saw that M. Budnikov was out of humor, and even 

106 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








nervous. ... And I involuntarily connected it 
with the incident of the morning. 

‘‘For some time he kept out of sorts and every 
one around noticed that something secret and 
hidden had gone wrong between master and 
servant. Gavrilo wanted to leave. . . . Budnikov 
would not let him go, although he often told me 
that he was disappointed in Gavrilo. As I was 
walking one day through the garden, I saw them 
both standing by the gate and talking. Budnikov 
was excited; Gavrilo, calm. He was standing in 
an easy position and kept looking at his spade, 
which was stuck in the ground. He was evi- 
dently insisting on something which enraged Bud- 
nikov. . . . But I thought that the subject of con- 
versation created between fhem a strange equal 
MSc o-5 | 

‘«*Ves, friend, of course, it’s your business,’ 
said M. Budnikov. He caught sight of me but 
did not think it necessary to change the subject. 
He spoke spitefully and angrily. ...‘Yes.... 
You’re a free man. . . . But just remember, Gav- 
rilo Stepanich, if you have any utilitarian object, 
... I, of course, can give only a very small 
es 
**M. Budnikov was unable to speak simply, and 
used foreign words, even when talking to Gavrilo, 

107 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








. Gavrilo looked at him calmly and answered: 

‘**We don’t want anything.... We have 
enough... .’ 

‘‘M. Budnikov glanced cautiously at him and 
answered: 

‘**F ine! Remember! Afterwards. ... I'll go 
to Petersburg on business.... Do what you 
want to.’ 

‘‘Gavrilo bowed and said: 

“4 thank ‘you: .°.:.” 

‘* *Exeuse me,’ replied M. Budnikov, with a 
shadow of ironical melancholy, ‘I don’t expect 
gratitude.’ 

‘‘He slammed the gate and left the garden. 

‘He stopped and waited for me in the yard, 
took my arm, and came up to my rooms. On the 
way, and in my apartments, he kept talking con- 
fusedly and incoherently. He did not conceal the 
fact that he had had some affection for a certain 
woman. This might be still ‘alive under the ashes.’ 

. On the other hand he was dreaming of union 
and the possibility of friendship with his humblest 
brother. Although both of these feelings had led 
to his disillusionment, he could show something, so 
that every one would feel it. . But, in general, 
magnanimity and the finer dealings belong only to 
highly cultured people... . 

108 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








‘‘He was nervous and under his rather artificial 
pathos, I could see his real exasperation and 
anger. 

“‘T later had a chance to see his diary. These 
were separate pages, written like letters to his 
distant friend.... Apparently he hadn’t sent 
any letters for a long time, but these pages were 
like lights in the darkness. Under the approxi- 
mate day of the conversation with Gavrilo was a 
passionate note. He told the whole story of 
Yelena, and wrote that he had made a mistake, 
and that he now loved her. . . . And that he would 
try once more. . . . This ended with a sudden burst 
of poetry: ‘My distant friend, you, of course, do 
not doubt that I will do what I consider the duty 
of magnanimity. .. .’ 

‘Then, sending Gavrilo one day with the horse 
somewhere outside the city, M. Budnikov went to 
the wing where Yelena still lived. 

***Velena! You should come to me. You must 
fix up something. .. .’ 

**A few days before this he had been thoughtful 
and solemn, but now he dressed in style, went to 
the wing, and entered Yelena’s room, without heed- 
ing the inquisitive looks of his tenants. 

‘“No one knew what happened in that room, but 
a half-hour later M. Budnikov came out, stubborn, 

109 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








affected, but apparently dazed. Every one began 
to say that he had formally proposed to Yelena 
and—she had rejected him. 

*‘After this he left for Petersburg, where he 
had a lawsuit before the Senate. He lost it, and 
when he returned, Gavrilo and Yelena were already 
married. 


V 


‘“‘This made a great impression upon him, like 
some great spiritual conversion. One apparently 
insignificant circumstance especially surprised him. 
Every spring flowers grew by the wall under 
M. Budnikov’s windows. This Yelena did regu- 
larly, and it was put down as an annual source of 
expense: seed, a watering pot, to a blacksmith for 
mending the spade. . . . In the early spring Yelena 
used to set to work at it, gladly and merrily, and 
M. Budnikov took a delighted interest in it. Now 
that wing was neglected, the flower bed languished, 
M. Budnikov’s windows seemed blind... . But 
the other wing, where Gavrilo and his wife lived, 
bloomed and flourished. A symbol. When M. 
Budnikov came back from the station and took one 
look at this unexpected contrast his face changed, 
and for a short time he lost his usual aristocratic 

110 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








air. I suddenly felt sorry for him. I went out 
and invited him into my room. He sat with me 
a long time and gave me his impressions of the 
capital,—verbose, rambling, insincere. I kept feel- 
ing that M. Budnikov’s soul was thinking of some- 
. thing very far removed from his impressions of 
the capital. 

‘*Gradually everything drifted back into the old 
channels. M. Budnikov still went twice a week 
to his farm, still visited his tenants on certain 
days, still prepared his dinner on an oil stove. 
But there were more trifles in his diary; for exam- 
ple, he began to note down how many steps he 
took each day, and apparently counted thereby the 
use and value of various things. 

‘‘In a short time another change took -place: 
M. Budnikov felt attracted to religion. 

‘‘T remember one fall evening. . . . It was one 
of those evenings when nature touches your soul 
especially. The stars seem to be waving and whis- 
pering in the heavens, and the earth is covered 
with light and shade. . . . Our little city, as you 
know, is quiet and filled with foliage. You go out 
in the evening and sit down on your steps. And 
so with the other houses along the street; here’s 
one person on a bench by the gate, another on the 
dirt bank, another on the grass. ... People are 

111 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








whispering about themselves, the trees about them- 
selves,—and there’s a hardly perceptible hum. 
Yes, and something’s whispering in your soul. You 
unconsciously review your whole life. What was 
and what is left, where you came from, what’s 
going to happen? Then, everything... the 
meaning of your life in the general economy of 
nature, so to speak, ... nature, where all the 
stars sink, unnumbered, unlimited, .. . they 
gleam and shine. ... And speak to your soul. 
Sometimes it’s sad and deep and quiet. ... You 
feel you’re going to the wrong place. You begin 
to think what’s there above. . . . You want to run 
away from this reproving beauty, this exalted 
calm, with your load of confusion, and you want 
to melt away in it. ... You’ve no place to go. 
... You enter your office, look at all your things 
in the lamp-light . . . text-books, copy-books with 
answers written by your pupils. . . . And you ask: 
where’s there anything alive? .. .”’ 

Petr Petrovich muttered something and the nar- 
rator stopped again. 

‘*Well . . . that was the way I felt and I was 
sitting on my steps and thinking: here’s the people 
coming from vespers. .. . What of it? That’s the 
way they find their relations to the infinite... . 
Or else it’s nothing but habit, mere automatic mo- 


112 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 


tion. I prefer it to be real. Suddenly I saw one 
man leave the crowd and come towards me. It 
turned out to be M. Budnikov. He had been to 
vespers. He sat down beside me. 

**T felt that M. Budnikov was waiting, you know, 
for me to ask him why he went to church. He 
never had gone and was always sarcastic about re- 
ligion, but now he had suddenly commenced to go. 
I was really interested and the evening led me to 
be frank. . . . Why not say, I thought, that there’s 
a cloud on my soul. ... 

**Yes, Semen Nikolayevich, ...’’Isaid... ‘‘I 
look at the sky and think... . 

‘*He nodded and commenced: 

‘<*That tortured me, too... and I suffered.... 
And like you, I saw no solution. But the solution 
is so plain... .? 

‘‘He pointed toward the church, a white spot 
showing through the trees. 

‘<*We, intelligent people,’’’ he said, ‘‘ ‘are 
frightened, so to speak, by the beaten path, banal- 
ity. But,—we must drop our pride and fuse... 
or as Tolstoy once said,—partake of the common 
cup, search with the humble faith of humanity .. . 
cease examining the foundations of life. . . . Like 
Antaeus, so to speak, we must touch our common 
mother... .’ 











113 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘“He spoke rather nicely. His voice was so 
sleepy and murmured like the bass in the episcopal 
choir. Ill tell you the truth: I felt envious... . 
Really you could feel the quiet and blessing. .. . 
As M. Budnikov said, it was worth while to fuse, 
and all these searchings of the heart are healed as 
by the holy oil. Suddenly I found the lost mean- 
ing. I asked myself: what’s the use of these books? 
Why all these notes, all this quiet life? ... Why 
is this bootmaker solemn and satisfied? Mikhailo 
looks for no special meaning, but he floats along 
with the general current of life, that is, he agrees 
with its general significance and meaning. People 
go maybe once a week into this little white build- 
ing which looks out so attractive through the trees; 
they spend a little time in communion with some 
mystery—and see, for a week they are supplied 
with the idea of meaning. ... And many live a 
harder life than I do.... 

‘“‘There’s M. Budnikov....Had he really 
found this for himself and solved his troubles? 
I almost asked, but our priest went by just then. 
M. Budnikov bowed and he returned it pleasantly. 
And he looked at me with questioning kindness. .. . 
Budnikov has been converted and may bring back 
another wanderer. I answered the bow rather 
warmly and gratefully, and again felt like asking 

114 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








M. Budnikov, but another person of an entirely 
different character put in an appearance... .”’ 


vI 


Pavel Semenovich thought for a moment and 
then asked Petr Petrovich: 

**Did Rogov ever study with you?’’ 

**Rogov. ... 1 don’t remember. ... I’ve had 
sO many....’’ 

‘*He was remarkable and our council often dis- 
cussed him. . . . His fate was peculiar. .. . You 
see, the boy’s father was a rascal of the old school, 
a slanderer, drunkard and a quarrelsome fellow, 
and as much bothered by modern times as a wolf is 
by hunters. He came too late. Rough manners un- 
fitted for the present times. He spent his last days 
in trouble, poverty, and drunkenness. He always 
thought that fate did not treat him fairly; people 
got along well, but he, as he thought,—a model of 
activity,—was dirty, hungry and oppressed... . 
And imagine,—this man had a family. . . . a wife 
and son. ... ; 

‘“The wife was irresponsible; her whole being 
_had been crushed in the full sense of the word, ex- 
cept one corner of her soul. When anything con- 
cerned her son, a door seemed to open into her com- 

115 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








pletely stupefied soul, which was like a citadel un- 
captured in the midst of a fallen city, and so much 
wifely heroism came out through this gate that at 
times the old ruffian and drunkard put his tail be- 
tween his legs. God knows what this cost her, but 
she succeeded just the same in giving her son an 
education. When I went to teach in Tikhodol, I 
found this fellow in the last class. He was a bash- 
ful, apparently modest boy and behaved quietly; 
but his eyes had such an expression, strange, re- 
strained; I confess it made you uneasy: a curious 
fire, like the flame of a restless, internal conflagra- 
tion. His thin, drawn face was always pale and a 
crop of brown hair fell over his rough forehead. 
He learned easily, made few friends among his 
schoolmates, seemed to hate his father and loved 
his mother almost abnormally. 

‘‘Now ... excuse me....I must say a few 
‘ words about myself. Otherwise you won’t under- 
stand a lot of what’s coming. . . . I’d only been 
teaching a very few years and had the usual 
idea. . . . I looked at my ealling as noble, so to 
speak, from the ideal point of view. My compan- 
ions seemed a holy regiment, yes... the gym- 
nasium almost a temple.... You know, young 
people feel that way and value it highly... . You 
run to this light with every trouble and every ques- 

116 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








tion. . . . It’s the living soul of our business. .. . 
What shall I say, when he comes to you, a fellow 
with his young soul under his uniform with all its 
buttons sewed on....I, the teacher, need him 
with his questions and errors. . . . And he needs 
me to search and study. .. . Honestly you want 
to guide them. . . .”’ 

The narrator paused and continued in a low 
voice: 

‘“That’s the way it was with me. . . . I got inti- 
mate with several boys from my classes, among them 
Rogov. . . . Gave them books, and they visited me. 
You understand, over a samovar, simply, heart to 
heart. I remember this as the finest time of my 
life. . . . Every time you open a new journal, you 
find conversation, discussion, argument. I listened, 
without interfering at first, to the way they wan- 
dered and argued, and then I explained,—carefully 
but pleasantly. You see, you get one thought and 
then another, and again it comes so sharp that it 
scratches you. . . . And you feel how you need to 
restrain yourself and think and study. And you 
grow with them. ... Andlive.... 

*“Tt didn’t last long. One day my director called 
me in for a confidential conversation. . . . Well, 
you know the rest. . . . This ‘extracurricular’ in- 
fluence of the leaders of youth does not enjoy pro- 

117 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








tection. Journals already! ... The director, you 
know him,—Nikolay Platonovich Popov,—is a fas- 
tidious man. . . . He merely hinted and afterwards 
acted as if he really knew nothing. . . . I almost got 
angry ; at first I even refused to obey, and appealed 
to the highest understanding of my obligations. 
Then ...I saw that it was.no use. The main 
point was that I wasn’t the only one getting talked 
about: the boys were getting a bad reputation. . . . 
That was hard and difficult enough but what could 
I say to my young disputants? How could I ex- 
plain it? I obeyed the evidently senseless and 
humiliating order! This was the first’blow that life 
had dealt me and I did not notice at the time that 
I had received a mortal wound. 

**T obeyed and stopped my evening discussions. 
I can conscientiously say that I thought even more 
about them. But youths, you know, don’t obey 
so easily and can’t understand the whole meaning. 
One evening this. Rogov came to me with a com- 
panion. Secretly. Flushed faces, blazing eyes, and 
a peculiar look. . . . I stopped this kind of fellow- 
ship. ‘No,’ I said, ‘gentlemen, we’d better stop 
it.’ I saw that both boys were getting worked up. 
Rogov began to say something, but he had a con- 
vulsion of the throat and his eyes suddenly took 
on an evil expression. . . . I found a way to justify 

118 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








myself: I was afraid for them, especially for Rogov 
and his mother. . . . You see, if our conspiracies 
were discovered, his whole career—and his mother’s 
heroism—would have gone for nothing. So I 
yielded . ... for the first time... . 

*<In place of this I tried to make my lessons as 
interesting as possible. My evenings were free. 
. . . It was boring. I’d begun to get accustomed 
to my young circle. And now—nothing. I went 
for my books. Worked like a dog and kept think- 
ing: this must be interesting to them; it will be new 
and it answers such and such questions. . . . I read 
and dug in my books, collected everything interest- 
ing, attractive, that pushed apart the official walls 
and the official lessons. ...I kept thinking of 
those conversations. . . . And I thought I was get. 
ting results. . . . I remember the whole class almost 
died from zeal. . ... Suddenly the director began 
to attend the lessons. He’d come in, sit down, and 
listen without saying a word. . ... You know what 
happened next. You act as if it were nothing, but 
both you and the class feel it’s not a lesson but a 
sort of investigation. . . . Again delicate questions 
on the side: ‘Really, excuse me, but where did you 
get this? Out of what official text book? How do 
you think this agrees with the courses of study?’ 

‘‘T’ll be brief. .. . In a word, the enthusiasm 

119 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








finally died out of me.... The class became 
merely a class: the living people began to retire 
further and further; they disappeared in a sort of 
fog. . . . I lost intellectual contact. Remarks... 
plan . .. the enumeration of the stylistic beauties 
of a live work. In this there are twelve beauties. 
First . . . second ... andsoon... . It fitted the 
program. ... That is, you understand, I didn’t 
notice how I dried up just like Budnikov. 
‘Anyway this young fellow finished his course 
and went to the capital. ... He didn’t get into 
the university right away. It was the time of secret 
denunciations. . . . Perhaps my lectures were sus- 
picious. To sum up,—he lost a year. He wrote 
his mother that he had entered and had a fellow- 
ship, but he really beat his way along, was poor 
and probably got disgusted. Then he began to 
tramp. Suddenly he had a great sorrow: his 
mother died before he could get home. As soon as 
her son left home, she began to waste away... . 
The guiding star of her life, so to speak, disap- 
peared from the horizon—and she lost the power 
of resistance. Died of consumption, you know, 
quickly, almost gladly. ‘Vanya doesn’ need me 
any more,’ she’d say. ‘I got him on the right track, 
thank God. He’ll get along now.’ She said the 
Nune Dimittis and died. Soon after they found 
120 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








the honored father in a ditch. And my Rogov was 
an orphan. ... 

‘‘The old woman was really in too much of a 
hurry; her son really needed her more than ever. 
He learned well and eagerly, so to speak, without 
wasting his time, as if he were hurrying somewhere. 
When he heard of his mother’s death, something 
broke in his soul. . . . In turn she seemed to have 
been the only ideal in his life. ‘I'll finish, get on 
my feet, revive my shattered truth: even though 
she’s ready to die, mother’ll know that there is 
divine blessing, love, and gratitude.... For a 
year, a month, even a week. . . . An instant even, 
for her heart to be filled and melted with joy.’ 
Suddenly, in place of everything, the grave.... A 
crash ... and it’s all over! There’s no need of 
gratitude, nothing to go back to, to correct. ... 
You’ve got to have strength to stand such a tempta- | 
tion without being shattered. . . . You need faith 
in the general meaning of life.... It mustn’t 
seem to you but blind chance. ... 

‘He didn’t hold on. He had no support.... 
He changed, got rough, and began to drink in with 
his wine a poisonous feeling of insult and of the 
injustice of fate. ...So it went. He threw up 
his examinations—what was the use of getting a 
diploma? He drifted along like an empty boat 

121 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








on a river. ... He came back to our city.... 
Perhaps he wanted to tie up by his mother’s grave. 
.. . But how could that help him?... If he’d 
tried to find some meaning, that would have been 
another thing... . And so... he got in court a 
certificate, ‘to travel’ on business, and followed his 
father’s footsteps. He lived a dissolute life, spent 
his time in saloons, with worthless people, and en- 
gaged in business of the most shady character. One 
year of this life——and he’d become a drunken, 
impudent bum, the enfant terrible of our peaceful 
city, a menace to the citizens. The devil knows 
how, but the bashful boy became insolent and dia- 
bolically clever: every one in the city was afraid 
of him. .. . It’s strange, but there isn’t a city in 
Russia without its Rogov. A sort of a state char- 
acter. It was quiet everywhere, peaceful slumber, 
idyllic calm, M. Budnikov walking along the 
streets, obstinate, conceited, counting his steps... . 
Evenings, especially on holidays, these poetie mur- 
murs, and there’s a lot of noise from some saloon 
like our ‘On the Crags,’ and some misshapen, sick 
and desperate soul carousing. .. . Satellites 
around, of course. This is a natural and necessary 
detail to fill up the provincial corners, so to 
S68: 4.5 

*“Rogov met me soon after he turned up. .. . He 

122 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








bowed shyly and went to one side, especially when 
he was drunk. One time I met him, spoke to him, 
and asked him in. ... He came.. . sober, seri- 
ous, even bashful . . . from old habit, of course. 
... But we didn’t stick together. Memories 
parted us: I was a young teacher with a lively 
faith in my calling, with lively feelings and words: 
He was a young man, still pure and respecting my 
moral authority. . . . Now he was Vanka Rogov, a 
Tikhodol bum, engaged in shady business... . 
And I. ... In a word, we seemed to be parted by 
a solid wall: the main reason of all I won’t mention. 
I felt that I had to shatter the barrier, tell him 
something that would reach his soul and control 
it as I used to. . . . He seemed to be waiting for 
this in terror: waiting for the cruel blow... . 
His eyes showed his pain and expectation. ... I 
didn’t have the strength. It was gone, .. . lost 
probably when for the first time we parted in 
shame... . 

*‘T had to watch like a sympathetic witness, so 
to speak, how this young fellow degraded himself, 
grew fast, drank, and defiled himself. . . . He got 
insolent, lost all sense of shame. Then I heard 
that Rogov was an extortioner and begging. Busi- 
ness was poor; he was on the border between the 
merely offensive and the criminal. He was as clever 


123 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








as an acrobat and laughed at everything. In two 
or three years he was absolutely transformed. He 
had become a menacing, dirty, and very unpleasant 
figure. 

‘Sometimes he’d come when he was drunk... . 
It’s strange: but I seemed to feel more at home 
when he was that way. . . . It simplified matters, 
his fault was evident, and it was easier to draw 
amoral. I remember after one of his descents into 
the loathesome, I said to him: 

‘‘¢This and that’s not right, Rogov.’ 

‘He shrugged his shoulders, turned away his 
eyes, as if he was afraid of a moral beating; then 
he shook his hair, looked me straight in the eye, ob- 
viously relying on his impudence: 

‘¢ “What’s wrong, Pavel Semenovich?’ 

‘* «Tt’s disgraceful,’ I said. 

‘* “You know,’ he said, ‘I’ve changed one quarrel- 
some goal for another not less quarrelsome. That 
was wrong and now it’s disgraceful. My theory 
works out all right for me,’ he said. ‘Honor and 
everything like that is nothing but dessert. You 
know it comes after dinner. If there’s no dinner, 
what’s the use of dessert? .. .’ 

*« «But, remember, Rogov,’ I said, ‘why you have 
no dinner. . . . You studied well, had a good start, 
and then suddenly went wrong... .’ 


124 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








‘‘That moment I thought my statement was not 
only convincing but incontrovertible. . . . And he 
looked at me, laughed, and said: 

‘“*You’ve sometimes played billiards a little, 
haven’t you?’ 

- ** “Ves,” I said, ‘I play for relaxation. .. .’ 

*“ ¢You know the downward stroke?’ 

*<*Yes.? You know that’s a peculiar and para- 
doxical shot. The ball first goes forward and then 
it suddenly and apparently of its own accord rolls 
back. . . . At first sight it seems incomprehensible 
and a violation of the laws of motion, but it’s really 
simple. 

‘* “Well, what do you think?’ he asked. ‘Has the 
ball a will of its own? No.... It’s merely a 
contest between two different motions. ... One 
rules in the beginning, the other later. . . . Now 
you see,’ he said, ‘all her life my mother went 
straight but father, as you know, spun around like 
atop. That’s why I went straight at first, as long 
as my mother’s impulse lasted. . . . I hadn’t gotten 
my bearings, when I swung round to father’s pat- 
tern. . . . There’s my whole story... .’ 

‘*He spoke frankly and hopelessly. He dropped 
his head, shook his hair down over his face, and 
then, when he looked at me again, I felt uneasy. 
His eyes showed his pain. Did you ever see a sick 

125 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








animal? . . . A dog,—usually an affectionate brute, 
is willing then to bite its master. 

‘* “Now,” he said, ‘whom do you think’s to 
blame?’ 

*“*T don’t know, Rogov. I’m not your judge. 
. . . It’s not a question of blame. . . .’ 

*“*Not of blame, what then? I think he’s to 
blame who started me off with that shot. . . . That 
means to condemn no one. I’m a ease of downward 
stroke in life. . . . I do the will of Him that sent 
me. ... So there you are, my dear Pavel Semeno- 
vich, . . . Have you got two grivens of silver? I 
want to drown my sorrow... .’ 

‘“This was the first time that he had asked 
me for two grivens and I instantly felt that 
the old barrier between us had been broken. 
Now he could insult me as he would any one 
else. 

‘‘T wanted to defend myself. 

***No, Rogov. I won’t give you two grivens. 
Come any time you feel like. . . . I’m glad to see 
you. .. . But this is impossible. .. .’ 

‘He dropped his shaggy head, sat down, and 
said dully: 

‘**Ves, Pavel Semenovich. Excuse me. I'll 
come without begging. Yet to sit down with you, 
I feel easier and free from my usual load.’ 

126 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








‘‘He sat still. A long, strained silence ensued. 
Then he said: 

‘< «There was atime ... when I hoped to receive 
something from you... . You don’t know what 
you meant to me. Even now I sometimes feel I 
must see you. You’re waiting for something... . 
No. ... It’s hopeless....<A downward stroke 
and it’s all over... .’ 

‘«*Exeuse me, Rogov,’ I said. ‘You’re really 
misusing that example from billiards. You’re not 
an ivory ball but a living man.’ 

‘¢¢And for that reason, I feel. ... As for a 
ball,—wherever you send it,—into a pocket or a 
hole, that ivory ball doesn’t care. . . . But a man, 
most esteemed Pavel Semenovich, finds it hard to be 
pocketed. . . . Do you think that any one willingly 
and voluntarily refuses dessert? ...I wouldn’t. 
...1’m a man with reflexes, as they say. I see 
and examine my trajectory clear to the end... . 
T’ll become a pig of pigs and I can’t reform. At 
times I think ... perhaps .. . somehow . . . some- 
where ... there may be some... . point of sup- 
port. . . . Sometimes you get irritated . . . really. 
... Where is truth... reality? ...Is there 
such a thing, Pavel Semenovich?’ 

** “Of course there is,’ I answered. 

** “How sincerely you spoke. There must be, of 


127 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





A ee 


course ... there is. ... But where? Excuse me, 
IT don’t want to catch you. ... You don’t know 
yourself. You looked once and stopped. That’s 
why I’ll only ask you for two grivens. Sometimes 
I may be sitting by a fire. . . . You’re a man with 
a soul. ... Another time, perhaps, I’ll be able to 
get more out of you... .’ 

** *Tjisten here,’ I said to him. ‘Think now, can 
T really help you in any way?’ I felt that there 
was something to him. . . . He was rather touched, 
was not insolent. . . . He became thoughtful and 
dropped his head. 

**“No,’ he replied, ‘it can’t be done. You’re 
not to blame, friend. Because ...I, and every 
one like me, is very greedy. Like swine we wallow 
in the mire, and we want any one who helps us 
to be whiter than snow. ... You need a lot of 
strength, friend. You haven’t enough...A 
storm is necessary.... To breathe fire... 
There are miracles. ... But you... . You’re not 
angry at me?.. .’ 

‘**Angry? Why?’ 

‘““We both stopped talking. I had nothing to 
say to him, he began again to walk around, but 
he gradually recovered his former manner. He 
came and sat down and he showed his brandy. The 
next Saturday he came in the same condition and 

128 





ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








sat down beside me on the steps. Just then the 
bell rang for vespers. In a short time M. Budnikov 
came out of the gate. Dandy, you know how he is, 
stubborn as ever, perfectly self-satisfied. ... He 
breathes forth the consciousness of duty well done. 

‘‘T remember what an unpleasant effect he pro- 
duced upon me. Rogov’s face suddenly changed. 
He jumped up, adopted a theatrical pose, took off 
his cap, and said: 

‘¢¢To M. Budnikov, Semen Nikolayevich, on his 
way to vespers is extended the most respectful 
greeting of Vanka Rogov. 

‘‘Then with a sweeping wave of his cap, he began 
to sing—from a well-known romance: 


***T can n-no l-longer pay at all. ... 
Remem-mber me, m-my friend beloved. ...’ 


‘‘This buffoonery was too much.... I felt that I 
disliked Budnikov, but yet. . . . He was insulting 
a man on a point which from every angle and in 
any case should have won his respect. Yelena 
soon came out of the gate and also started for 
church. He sang to me: 


““*Ophelia! Nymph! Remember me 
In those most sacred prayers of thine.’ 
129 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘‘This made me really angry. Yelena quailed 

before the impudent stare and insolent, even if 
unintelligible words. She dropped her head and 
quickly walked to church. 
. ** *Tiisten, Rogov,’ I said. ‘You ought to be 
ashamed of yourself! I must tell you... if you 
want to come here, I humbly beg you to act more 
decently. ...’ 

‘‘He turned and I saw in his eyes a peculiar 
expression—of evil pain. He felt like biting me.... 

‘*T tried to soften the bitterness of my words and 
said: 

“* “Rogov, you don’t know these people, nor their 
relations, and yet you venture to insult them. . . .’ 

‘He smiled at me and replied: 

***You’re thinking of the idyl? The kindly 
M. Budnikov made two hearts happy. Why, here’s 
Gavryushenka.’ 

“*In truth, Gavrilo had just come out of the gate. 
Rogov beckoned to him rather hostilely. . .. 

‘**T eongratulate you, Gavryushenka, ... on 
your master’s leavings.... Wise fellow! You 
knew where the crabs winter. . . . In ease of neces- 
sity, you may depend upon my legal knowledge... .’ 

‘‘Surprising how these cynics find things out. 
Evidently Rogov knew the whole story and sus- 
pected Gavrilo of having mercenary motives. ... 

130 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 


‘‘He walked up and patted him on the shoulder. 
... Gavrilo got angry and pushed Rogov away 
violently. Rogov almost fell down, laughed, and, 
with pretended indifference, started along the path. 
He came up to me, stopped and said: 

** “Most esteemed Pavel Semenovich. . . . I want 
to ask you a question: haven’t you read... it’s 
in Xenophon ... the conversation between Alci- 
biades and Pericles? . . . If you haven’t, I recom- 
mend it most highly. Although it’s in a dead 
language, it’s instructive.’ 

‘‘He went off singing an indecent song. A little 
while after I hunted up this dialogue. I wondered 
what he meant... . 

‘*You know it’s a hard but a powerful piece. 
The subject’s about like this: Young Alcibiades 
went one day to Pericles. . . . Remember, Pericles 
was already a famous man and enjoyed the con- 
fidence of every one . . . because of past services 
and a certain air of benevolence. . . . Anyway his 
position was secure. Alcibiades was a rascal, 
worthless, drunkard, in all sorts of scandals with 
Athenian girls, cut off dogs’ tails, as you know. ... 
A man of no reputation for well-doing. Well, one 
day, this rogue of a young fellow went up to 
Pericles and said: ‘Listen, Pericles, you’re a man 
chock full of benefactions clear to the top of your 

131 








BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








- 


head, you may say. I’m wandering off the road 
and twisting up everything, for I have nothing to 
do. Every one’s angry at me. I want you to 
explain everything to me.’ Pericles, of course, was 
willing and thought it was a good idea to talk to 
the young man. He might bring him to his senses. 
So he said: ‘Go ahead and ask what you want.’ 
Then came the question: ‘What is doing well? 
How do you learn it?’ Pericles, of course, laughed : 
‘Honor the gods, obey the laws, and do your duty. 
To obey the laws is the first duty of a citizen and 
aman.’ ‘Fine,’ answered the young fellow. ‘Tell 
me, please, which laws am I to obey: the bad or 

the good ones?’ Pericles was almost insulted. ‘If 
a law’s a law, it’s good. What are you talking 
about?’ ‘No,’ said Alcibiades, ‘wait and don’t get 
angry.’ .. . You know at this time in Athens all 
these principles were mixed up . . . parties, strug- 
gle, some robbing others, ostracism, a sort of banish- 
ment by administrative order... usurpers... 
favorites . . . there really was confusion,—a man 
jumped forward and drew up his own laws for his 
own advantage or for his relatives and friends. 
Then old gods were all mixed up, the oracles an- 
swered anything, provided it didn’t apply to the 
subject. In a word, everything that was clear in 
life had become unclear: there was no equilibrium, 

132 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








no generally acknowledged truth....A new 
system was necessary. Clouds covered the sky 
and there were no stars to steer by. . . . That was 
why Alcibiades asked what laws should be obeyed; 
those which prescribe good or bad. Of course, 
Pericles answered the good. ‘How can I tell which 
are good? What is the mark, so to speak?’ ‘Obey 
all! That’s what laws are for! .. .’ ‘That means 
laws passed by the power of tyrants?’ ‘No, you 
don’t need to obey those... .’ ‘I see, only lawful 
laws, so to speak. Fine! But suppose the 
minority coerces the majority to its own advantage, 
don’t I need to obey those laws?’ ‘Of course not.’ 
‘But if the majority coerce the minority, is that 
contrary to right? ...’ You see what the young 
fellow was driving at: he didn’t need external 
signs, but he showed that he needed to feel in his 
soul universal truth, the highest truth, so to speak, 
the truth of life, sanctity. . . . Pericles, you see, 
hadn’t understood this. . . . Not merely Pericles, 
the whole country rested on slavery, on past wrong. 
. . . Religion had dried up, the old sanctity which 
had consecrated every step, every motion, the whole 
order, all human relationships,—people had ceased 
to feel it. ... But Pericles argued around. ... 
He didn’t want to confess that their laws had died. 
. . » He patted the dissolute young fellow on the 
133 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








shoulder with a great deal of condescension and 
said: ‘Yes, yes. ... 1 see you’ve got a head on 
your shoulders. Years ago we used to settle such 
hard questions.’ ... Well, Alcibiades saw that 
Pericles was, so to speak, a recognized authority, 
was quibbling over trifles, didn’t treat these con- 
flicts as anything alive,—and waved his hand. ‘I’m 
sorry, my dear sir, that I didn’t know you then. 
. . . Now I’m bored; I’m going to fool along.’ 

‘And that’s what he recommended to me, his 
former teacher. .. .’’ 


vir 


The narrator stopped. The train, which was 
approaching another station, began to slow down. 
Petr Petrovich reached out his hand and said, as 
he took his blue cap with a cockade from the 
hook: 

*‘T’m going again to get something to eat... . 
I confess, my dear Pavel Semenovich, I don’t see 
what you’re driving at. . . . Excuse me, it’s not 
philosophy, and God only knows what you are after. 
We began with Budnikov. All right, we know him. 
. . . Now the devil knows who this Rogov is, a 
worn-out rogue, and now I don’t know whether 
you’re talking of Xenophon or Alcibiades,... 

134 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








Cutting off dogs’ tails. . . . The devil knows what 
you mean. ... Kindly allow me to ask how all 
this concerns me. .. . Just as you wish... .I’d 
better go and get some more vodka. .. .”’ 

He put on his cap, and, holding on to the wall 
because of the jolting of the train, he went out 
of the compartment. Just at that moment the 
fourth passenger on the other upper bench stirred. 
He had been lying in the shadow, smoking now and 
then, and he seemed to be interested in the story. 
He-got down, took a seat beside us and said: 

‘Excuse me, I haven’t the honor of being ac- 
quainted, but I couldn’t help hearing your story 
-and it interested me. So, if you have no objec- 
tions.’’ 

Pavel Semenovich looked at him. He was a 
cultured man, carefully dressed, with intelligent 
eyes which looked steadily through a pair of gold 
glasses which he was constantly adjusting. 

““Yes?’’ said Pavel Semenovich. ‘‘I see, you 
beard this... .”’ 

“Yes. It interested me.... Your point of 
view, I confess, I don’t understand fully. . . .”’ 

‘*Really, it wasn’t any too clear... . I meant 
. .. that in reality everything is so related... . 
And this mutual relationship. .. .’’ 

‘‘Presupposes mutual responsibility ?’’ 

135 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Pavel Semenovich’s face suddenly beamed with 
joy. 

‘“‘There! You understand it? ... Yes, general. 

. Not before Ivan or Petr. . . . Everything is 
connected, so to speak... . One man carelessly 
throws away a brandy cork and another slips on it 
and breaks his leg.’’ 

The new acquaintance listened ceantiely. Just 
then Petr Petrovich came back. He had been mis- 
taken as to the place and with an ironical glance 
at both, he said, as he hung up his cap: 

‘*Well, now,—what do you want with a cork?’’ 

‘No, Petr Petrovich,’’ said Pavel Semenovich 
seriously, ‘‘you’re wrong. . . . The question is, so 
to speak——’’ 

‘‘You find questions everywhere in the simplest 
things,’’ said Petr Petrovich. ‘‘Don’t bother about 
me. You’ve got a large enough audience.”’ 

‘Go on, please,’’ said the gentleman with the 
gold glasses. 

“‘Tf you wish. . . . I'll be more than glad, for 
I’ve got to get it off my mind. I stopped——”’ 

“‘You stopped,’”’ said Petr Petrovich laughingly, 
‘‘with Alcibiades. . . . A story, so to speak, from 
the Ancient Times. Now for the Middle Ages. . 

Pavel Semenovich paid no attention to this sally 
and turned to the new member of the group: 

136 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








**You see how it was. The thing was this way: 
Gavrilo was married and living by himself. . . . In 
M. Budnikov’s table still lay the ticket with the 
two lines. ... There were ugly rumors about it 
and, of course, they were exaggerated. Gavrilo was 
the only one who didn’t know of them. He kept 
on working as before, did all he could, and tried. 
. . . He was a muscular symphony in performance, 
with his eyes full of general satisfaction and good 
humor. ... 

‘And then Rogov suddenly turned up. He was 
walking along the path by the yard; he stopped, 
thought a moment, and called Gavrilo. 

‘He was a good-hearted Russian. ... He had 
pushed Rogov away a little while before, but after- 
wards he thought no more of it. ‘What do you 
want?’ he asked. ‘Come here, it’s something that 
concerns you. You'll thank me for it.’ 

**T’ll confess, something warned me. I felt like 
calling to Rogov and stopping him, for I was sure 
he was up to some mischief. But it was after 
the Alcibiades episode . . . and I had no hope in 
my influence. I stayed at the window. I saw 
Gavrilo leave his shovel, go up and listen. At first 
his face showed that he did not comprehend and 
almost did not care. Then, with the same air of 
uncertainty, he took off his apron, went into the 

137 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








house, put on his cap and rejoined Rogov. Both 
walked down the street and turned down the hill 
toward the river. A moment later Yelena came 
out to the gate, stood and looked after the two men. 
. . . Her eyes looked sad and frightened. ... 

‘‘From that day on Gavrilo’s character changed 
sharply. He came back apparently rather drunk. 
. . . Perhaps from vodka, perhaps from the weight 
of an unbearable burden which Rogov had suddenly 
put on his shoulders. . . . In the first place, the 
amount was absolutely staggering: a mountain of 
money more than he could count. Then the source 
of the wealth reminded him of Yelena’s past. 
Finally he couldn’t understand why she had never 
mentioned it and this may have given rise to evil 
suspicions. . . . You see it was like an explosion in 
his mind. . . . Those two lines which M. Budnikov 
had made on the ticket kept sinking deeper and 
deeper into Gavrilo’s soul. . . . The simple-hearted 
man was absolutely upset. The whole symphony 
of directness and labor was suddenly interrupted. 
. . . Gavrilo wandered around in confusion, as if 
he had been poisoned. .. . 

“‘It began to break him down... . At first he 
walked about grimly with his face clouded. His 
work began to fall from his hands: he threw down 
his axe and broke his spade. . . . Just like a well- 

138 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








built machine into which some one has hurled a 
bolt. . . . When Budnikov in surprise began to 
administer mild rebukes, that shovels cost money 
and he would have to take it out of Gavrilo’s wages, 
that easy-going man answered with unintelligible 
and unreasonable rudeness. . . . And Yelena wept 
more and more. ... 

‘“‘Then Gavrilo began to drink and carouse and 
his usual abode became the dirty den, the ‘Crags’ 
on the bank, on the sand near the wharf. . . . This 
was a small wooden house with a second floor, dark, 
tilting to one side and propped up with beams. 
You could see it from the bank; evenings there 
were usually two lighted windows and the open 
door, cymbals clashed, and there was a lot of 
fiddling to amuse the guests. ... From time to 
time, you could hear confused shouts—both songs 
and quarrels and calls for the police. It was an 
eternally restless place and rather threatening. 
The very antithesis of the drowsy country life. . . . 
Bargemen from our modest and usually idle wharf, 
workmen from the brickyards like moles which had 
burrowed in the damp clay, professional beggars 

. in a word, the homeless, unfortunate, dissi- 
pated, and evil. Even the decent members of the 
proletariat shunned this place. And that’s where 
Rogov took Gavrilo. And Yelena was the next to 

139 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








learn the road to the ‘Crags’ so as to bring her 
husband home. ... 

‘She did this surprisingly modestly, quietly, yes, 
even beautifully. Once I was coming home from 
my lessons and as I entered the gate I saw Yelena 
running toward me and fastening a kerchief on 
her head. 

‘* “Where are you going, Yelena?’ 

‘*A moment’s hesitation. 

***You haven’t seen Gavrilo Stepanich go this 
way, have you?’ she asked. 

‘**He must have.... But you shouldn’t go 
there, Yelena.’ 

I wanted to stop her. ... But she swept past 
me angrily and with some apparent pride went 
to look for Gavrilo Stepanich, her husband, and 
she was his lawful wife. . . . In a half-hour I saw 
her bringing Gavrilo Stepanich by the arm. He 
was leaning on her but walking and looking straight 
ahead with dull, faded and perplexed eyes. But 
he was walking. By the gate he suddenly straight- 
ened up, pushed away her hand and stared at her. 
. .. His face was dark, but his faded eye had a 
decided look... . 

‘¢*Who are you? Tell me who you are?... 
Oh?’ 

‘*She stopped and dropped her hand in despair. 

140 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








I thought of that spring morning and their mutual 
oaths: ‘Remember God, Gavrilo Stepanich!’ I 
was terrified: he’ll forget right now, this very 
minute, I thought. ... Suddenly a spark of 
knowledge flickered up in his foolish face and 
he swallowed hard. He didn’t say a word but 
went to his rooms silently. . . . She followed him 
in terror, respectfully and humbly. ... 

‘*So it went on: Rogov would beckon to Gavrilo, 
and he’d go off and begin to carouse. This man 
got enormous power over Gavrilo, and Yelena ob- 
jected, humbly, respectfully, timidly, but con- 
stantly. She probably looked upon all this as a 
punishment sent to her as an atonement for her 
‘sin.’ She grew thin, her nice plumpness disap- 
peared, her eyes sank deeper in her head. . . . But 
when I looked at them I never could decide to 
call them stupid. Her suffering was always won- 
derfully intelligent like that of a bird. . . . She’d 
go to the saloons after her drunken husband, every 
one would laugh at her on the street, and make 
rough jokes about her. . . . She felt no shame for 
herself. . . . Only once she whispered: ‘That’s not 
right, Gavrilo Stepanich, people are looking at 
4! EE 

‘*One time when she was taking him back from 
the ‘Crags,’ he broke away from her, ran up to 

141 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Budnikov’s door and began to kick it wildly. 
Yelena almost dropped, and, as if she did not have 
the strength to go after him, she watched him like 
a man with the nightmare, who sees coming at 
him something terrible which he has been expect- 
ing but he can’t struggle against it. . . . The door 
suddenly opened and M. Budnikov appeared. ... 
Calm and haughty with an air of absolute superi- 
ority. To tell you the truth, I was somewhat sur- 
prised. .. . Anyway, it was a delicate situation. 
I didn’t know the details at the time, but I felt 
there was something wrong and mistaken... . 
Suddenly clearness of vision, quiet, calm. And it 
wasn’t put on. No,—that was easy to see... 
It was merely absolute imperturbability. 

*« “What do you want, Gavrilo?’ he said. ‘What 
are you kicking for? Don’t you know how to 
ring? . . . You see, here’s the bell. . . .’ 

‘‘He pointed to the bell handle. Gavrilo looked 
at it and became confused. Yes, there was a knob 
and there was really no reason to kick.... M. 
Budnikoyv continued from the top step: 

*** Anyway, what are you thinking about and 
what do you want of me, you r-rascal? Have I 
insulted you, dealt unjustly with you, held up your 
pay for even one day? Yet you kicked. ... All 
right, hereI am. . . . What do you want?’ 

142 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








**Gavrilo didn’t say a word. ... 

‘¢ ‘Well, then, I’ll tell you a thing or two myself: 
the shovel’s broken again, the walk isn’t swept, the 
horse hasn’t been watered. ... The horse is a 
dumb animal and can’t talk . . . but just the same 
it’s alive and feels. . . . Hear it whinney?.. .’ 

‘“‘This argument so overwhelmed Gavrilo that 
he turned, thoroughly and definitely crushed, and 
went straight to the stable. In a minute, just as 
if he were sober, he took the horse to the trough. 
. . . M. Budnikov quietly locked his door and came 
out. As he came past my wall he guessed that I 
had seen the whole affair, stopped, and with a sad 
shake of his head, remarked: . 

*« *Ves, every one’s talking of the people, the 
people.... How do they fall in love with 
ees 6c 05 


vill 


‘<The scandal began to attract attention. It was 
talked about in the city. Various opinions were 
held. Some defended Budnikov. Was it worth 
while to believe mere rumors? Really no one knew 
anything. Some were stupid stories; others, evident 
scandals and an unseemly breaking of the general 
quiet. . . . But there was another side. People of 

143 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








the lower classes sympathized with Gavrilo. They 
thought that the wise and strong M. Budnikov 
must have fileched from Gavrilo some sort of a 
talisman and was now committing sorcery so that 
the talisman would lose its power. . . . So dozens 
of eyes were turned to the windows of M. Budnikov 
and looked at him as he passed, stubbornly and 
calmly, apparently unaware of the cloud of mis- 
understanding, suspicion, condemnation, question, 
. .. yes, sin, which trailed after him. Every look 
expressed an evil thought and every heart was 
beating with an evil feeling. . . . It was a peculiar 
sort of dark cloud. . . . Hundreds of individual 
spiritual movements, confused, unclear, but evil. 
. . . And all aimed at one centre... . 

‘‘T must say Budnikov had been rather popular 
and enjoyed the respect of all... . Even Rogov, 
when he happened to pass our yard and saw M. 
Budnikov with a shovel or rake, always stopped 
and said: 

‘¢ *M. Budnikov, Semen Nikolayevich, is working. 
. . - He who works shall eat.’ 

“Or: 

‘¢¢*M. Budnikov is helping his neighbor, the 
porter, with the work of his hands. Most laud- 
able!’ 

‘‘Then he passed on as by an object to which he 

144 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








was indifferent or at which he was pleasantly 
amused. 

‘‘Now, that was all changed. .. . It gave me a 
physical sensation .-. . like a nightmare. As if 
those two lines . . . or something in the character 
of M. Budnikov had polluted the atmosphere. .. . 
It was almost an hallucination. . . . You’re going 
to or from the gymnasium .. . thinking out your 
remarks. . . . You suddenly feel that M. Budnikov 
is following you with his measured tread and his 
self-satisfaction that comes from a consciousness 
of duty performed. .. . Or you’re giving a lesson 
or reading necessary notices and you absolutely 
hear Budnikov’s accents in your own voice... 
when he lays down to a beggar rules for work or 
preaches a moral to Gavrilo over the broken shovel 
or advises me: ‘Lay aside pride and be 
humble.’ ... 

“‘In this ordinary thing, this humble and ap- 
parently quiet life of peaceful corners, there’s 
something terrible, . . . specific, so to speak, not 
easily noticeable, gray. . . . Really where are the 
rascals, sacrifices, the right, the wrong? ... You 
so want the fog to be pierced by even one ray of 
living, absolute truth, which will not be founded on 
pencil lines, but will be actually able to solve the 
riddle absolutely and completely ... the real 

145 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








truth, which even Rogov will acknowledge... . 
Do you understand ? 

‘* *T think I do,’ said the gentleman in the glasses 
seriously. 

**Apparently M. Budnikov began to feel that; 
something was wrong. He cleaned up but, as often 
happens, he didn’t find the real question. .. . He 
came to me once on the usual day, the twentieth. 
You understand I gave him tea as usual... . He 
drank it as usual, but his expression was different. 
Sad and solemn. He finished his business, care- 
fully put away the money in his pocketbook, 
marked it down, but didn’t leave. . . . He began to 
talk round the bush . . . about the abnormality of 
his life, ... in particular about his loneliness, 
some mistake caused by prejudice and pride. ... 
Then he got talking of Yelena and Gavrilo. Gay- 
rilo had turned out to be utterly worthless and Ye- 
lena had made a mistake and was very unhappy.... 
He felt responsible for letting her marry, but it was 
hard to correct it... . It was harder still to fix 
it up with money. ... What good is money in 
the hands of a drunkard? And so on. All these 
subterfuges showed me that M. Budnikov wanted 
to solve the whole riddle by recreating the original 
situation, so to speak,—that is, to divorce Yelena 
from Gavrilo and marry her himself... . That 

146 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








meant those two lines would be wiped out and 
disappear. ... Apparently ...he had already 
talked of this with several people, among them 
Father Nikolay. ... Now he wanted my advice. ... 

***Have you spoken to Yelena about this?’ I 
asked. 

** “No, not yet. . . . I, perhaps, you may notice, 
don’t even go to see her, so as not to make trouble. 
. - - But I know what she needs. . . . I have no 
reason to doubt... .’ 

**T tried to advance certain points, but M. Bud- 
nikov wouldn’t listen. . . . He soon said good-by 
and left. . . . As if he feared for the integrity of 
his whole plan of action. ... 

**A little while after, when Gavrilo was away, 
some women of the parish began to bob up at | 
Yelena’s and Budnikov received members of the 
consistory. Twice, toward evening, I saw Rogov 
leave Budnikov’s. . . . Then I thought: so that’s 
what my young fellow is after; I see now why 
he’s ruining Gavrilo; he’s fixing it so M. Budnikov 
can arrange the divorce... . 

‘‘The whole situation seemed to me so disgraceful 
and hopeless that I began to think of moving and 
simply getting away from the whole thing. ...I 
eouldn’t sleep. . . . Again I began to walk around 
the garden. Once I found Yelena in it... . She 

147 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








was lying on that same bench where I sat that 
spring morning. . . . It was fall now. . . . Every- 
thing was dying and growing bare... . Autumn, 
you know, is a terrible cynic. The wind breaks off 
the leaves and laughs. They were lying on the 
muddy, damp earth. And a woman was lying on 
the damp bench with her face down and crying. 
Yes, she was crying bitterly. . . . Later I found 
out why: the arrangement of M. Budnikov was ab- 
solutely impersonal. When she heard this propo- 
sition she merely clasped her hands: ‘Let the earth 
swallow me up, let me dry up like a chip.’ . . . And 
so on... . ‘You’d better bury me alive with Gav- 
rilo Stepanich.’ . . . And Gavrilo Stepanich didn’t 
spend the night at home. That former pure hap- 
piness had perished and she didn’t know what to 
do. A ticket ... two lines... friends from the 
church, Budnikov, Rogov. She was stupid and 
obedient and afraid that something would be done 
against her will... . 

‘“‘T walked up to her... wanted to comfort 
her. When I touched her and felt her body tremble 
beneath my touch... it seemed to me such a 
stupid performance that I trembled, as if from 
impotent pity.... 

‘‘T went away. . . . I forgot the whole thing and 
wanted to drop it and leave. If M. Budnikov 

148 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








passed ... let him pass.... If Rogov was en- 
gaged in dirty business, let him! If stupid Yelena 
wanted a drunken husband, let her have one... . 
What did I care? What difference did it make who 
got the ticket with the two lines, to whom those 
stupid lines gave rights? . . . Everything was in- 
complete, accidental, disconnected, senseless and 
disgusting. .. .’’ 


IX 


Pavel Semenovich stopped and looked out of the 
window as if he had forgotten the story. ... 

‘Well, how did it end?’’ asked our new com- 
panion cautiously. 

‘‘End?’’ The narrator woke up. ‘‘Of course, 
everything on the earth ends some way. This ended 
stupidly and simply. One night ... my bell rang. 
Sharply, anxiously, nervously. ...I jumped up 
in fright, put on my slippers . . . went out on the 
steps ... there was no one there. But it occurred 
to me that Rogov was around the corner. I thought 
he must have been passing drunk and ugly and 
wanted to annoy me by coming at this time... . 
He remembered that I was asleep and he, Vanichka 
Rogov, my favorite pupil, was drunk on the street 
and wanted to inform me of it. I closed the door, 

149 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








went back to bed, and fell asleep. The bell rang 
again. I didn’t get up. Let him ring.... It 
rang again and again. . . . No, this must be some- 
thing else. I put on my overcoat. . . . Opened the 
door. There stood the night watchman. His beard 
was covered with frost. ‘Please,’ he said. 

‘* “Where do you want me to go, brother?’ I 
asked. 

“**To Semen Nikolayevich, M. Budnikov. ... 
They’ve had... trouble... .’ 

‘*Without understanding anything, I dressed 
mechanically and went. A clear cold night, and 
late. . . . There were lights in the windows of M. 
Budnikov, whistles along the street... . What a 
stir for night. . . . I went up the steps and entered. 
The first thing that caught my eye was the face 
of Semen Nikolayevich, M. Budnikoy. . . . Abso- 
lutely different, not at all like what he was before. 
He was lying on his pillow and looking somewhere 
into space. ... That wassostrange. ... I stopped 
at the door and thought: ‘What’s this? I used 
to know him but he’s suddenly changed. . . . This 
isn’t the man who came once a month and drank 
two glasses of tea. Who worried over Yelena’s 
divorce, but it’s some one with other thoughts. He 
lay immovable, important, but he didn’t look at us 
or any one, and he seemed so different, , , , He 

150 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








was afraid of no one and judged every one; himself, 
that is, the old Semen Nikolayevich, and Gavrilo, 
Yelena, Rogov, and... yes, me too....I sud- 
denly understood. ... 

‘‘Then I saw Gavrilo. By the window, in a 
corner, grieved but quict....As I suddenly 
understood, I walked up to him and said: 

***Did you do this?’ 

** “Of course, Pavel Semenovich, I did.’ 

“é ‘Why?’ 

** *T don’t know, Pavel Semenovich. .. .’ © 

**Then the doctor attracted my attention. He 
told me that there was no help. . . . People kept 
walking and driving up, coming in, sitting down, 
and writing statements. . . . It seemed so strange 
that the young prosecutor, such a careful and reli- 
able man, should give orders not to let Gavrilo and 
Yelena go and to hold some sort of an investigation. 
. . - L remember his smile when I asked him the 
reason for it. . . . I’ll admit it was a strange ques- 
tion but I thought that this procedure was un- 
necessary. . . . When they started to take Gavrilo 
and Yelena away I involuntarily got up and asked 
if they were going to take me. . . . I later heard 
rumors that something was wrong with me. That 
was false. My head was never so clear. ... The 
prosecutor was surprised. ‘If I may give you ad- 

151 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








vice, you need to drink some water and go to bed.’ 
‘But Yelena?’ I asked; ‘why her?’ ‘We will hope,’ 
he answered, ‘that everything will turn out in a 
way that’s best for her, but now... at the first 
inquiry ... it is my painful duty.’...TI still 
thought he was acting wrongly. ... 
- **The two were taken away. I went back to my 
rooms and sat down on the steps. It was cold... . 
A clear, autumn, quiet night with a clear, white 
frost. . . . The stars were sparkling and whisper- 
ing in the sky. They had such a special expres- 
sion and meaning. . . . You could hear their mys- 
terious whisper, though you couldn’t make out 
what they said. . . . It was both a distant tremor 
of alarm and also quiet and neighborly sympathy. 
“‘T really wasn’t surprised when Rogov came up 
quietly and timidly sat down beside me on the 
steps. He sat a long time without saying a word. 
. .. I don’t remember whether he did say any- 
thing, but I knew the whole story. . . . He had no 
thoughts of murder. He wanted ‘to win Yelena’s 
ease with M. Budnikov’ for himself. He had to 
get hold of the ticket, on which, as he supposed, 
was an endorsement.... This clever scheme 
pleased him: to get hold by illegal means of the 
proof of a legal right. He saw something humorous 
in it. The illegal procuring of legal proof in the 
152 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








form of a hypothetical endorsement. . .. That’s 
why he worked his way into Budnikov’s confidence 
through the business of the divoree. . . . He found 
out everything about the place and sent one of 
his obedient clients from the ‘Crags’ to take the 
proper box. Gavrilo was to open the door of 
M. Budnikov’s apartment with a second key, which 
Budnikov, through strange oversight, had failed to 
take back from him. Instead of waiting at the 
door, Gavrilo had gone upstairs. I could have 
sworn I had seen him walk along with his heavy 
tread, his dark head, and the deep hatred in his 
soul. . . . And how he reached the door and how 
M. Budnikov awoke and apparently was not even 
frightened but suddenly understood the whole 
situation. 

**T still saw that moment in the past, when two 
students ran into my rooms on just such a bright 
night, and I faced them in my shame and weak- 
ness. ... What a fire . . . evil and sarcastic .. « 
was blazing in the eyes of one... . 

**Tt seemed to me that I had discovered that 
which was the bond of union among all things: 
these lofty, flashing stars, the living murmur of the 
wind among the branches, my memories, and this 
deed. . . . When I was young I had often had this 
sensation. . . . When my fresh mind was trying to 

153 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








solve all questions and gain a larger truth. An- 
other time you will seem to be right at the threshold 
and everything is about to be cleared up, when it 
all vanishes 

‘We sat along time. Finally Rogov got up. 

‘* “Where are you going now?’ I asked. 

**¢*T don’t know,’ was the answer, ‘what I must 
do....I1 think I'll have to join Gavrilo and 
Yelena... .’ 

‘‘There he stood. I understood so much more 
clearly than usual, and I suddenly realized that he 
was waiting for me to shake hands. I held out 
my hand and he suddenly seized it, and it was a 
long time before he let it go.... 

‘“He broke away and left . . . straight down the 
street. I looked after him. as long as I could make 
out the slender figure of my former pupil... .”’ 

* * *& * *& * 

For some time the silence in the compartment 
was interrupted only by the rattling of the train 
and a long whistle. The door slammed, and a 
conductor walked along the corridor and called 
out: 

‘*Station of N-sk. Ten minutes’ wait.’’ 

Pavel Semenovich hurriedly got up, picked up 
a small valise, and, with a sad smile at his audience, 
he got out of the train. I began to make prepara- 

154 


ISN’T IT TERRIBLE? 








tions to leave and so did the gentleman in the gold 
glasses. Petr Petrovich remained alone. He looked 
after Pavel Semenovich and, when the door was 
shut behind him, he smiled at the gentleman in the 
gold glasses, shook his head, and, running his finger 
around his forehead, he said: 

‘‘He always was a crank. . . . Now I think he’s 
not all there. I’ve heard that he threw up his 
position and now goes around and gives private 
lessons. ’’ 

The gentleman in the gold glasses looked steadily 
at him but said nothing. 

We got out of the train. 

* * * * ¥* * 

From the point of view of a reporter the case 
was uninteresting. The jurors acquitted Gavrilo 
(Yelena was not tried) ; Rogov was convicted of 
being the instigator, but mercy was recommended. 
The judge several times had to stop the witness 
Pavel Semenovich Padorin, former teacher, who 
constantly wandered away from facts, in order to 
express opinions which were irrelevant and had 
nothing to do with, the ease. ... 


155 








£ 
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*““NECESSITY”’ 


(AN EasTeRN TALE) 


‘‘NECESSITY’”’ 
(AN EASTERN TALE) 
I 


NE day, when the three good sages,—Ulaya, 
Darnu, and Purana,—were sitting at the door 
of their common home, young Kassapa, the son of 
the Rajah Lichava, came up to them and sat down 
on the earth which was piled around the house 
but he did not speak. The young man’s cheeks were 
pale and his eyes, which had lost the glow of youth, 
seemed weary. 

The old men looked one at another, and good 
Ulaya said: 

‘‘Listen, Kassapa, tell to us, the three sages, 
who wish you nothing but good, what is oppressing 
your soul. Ever since you lay in the eradle, fate 
has showered its gifts upon you and you look as 
downeast as the meanest slave of your father, poor 
Jebaka, who yesterday felt the heavy hand of your 
steward. ...”’ 

‘*Yes, poor Jebaka showed us the welts on his 
back,’’ said stern Darnu and kindly Purana added; 

159 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 











‘“We wished to call them to your attention, good 
Kassapa.”’ 

The young man did not allow him to finish. He 
jumped up from his seat and exclaimed with an 
impatience which he had never before displayed: 

“‘Stop, kindly sages, with your sly reproaches! 
You seem to think that I must give you account 
for every welt inflicted by the steward on the back 
of the slave Jebaka. I greatly doubt whether I 
am. bound to give account even of my own acts.’’ 

The sages glanced again one at another and 
Ulaya said: 

‘‘Continue, my son, if you so desire.”’ 

**Desire?’’ interrupted the young man with a 
bitter laugh. ‘‘The fact is, I don’t know whether 
I desire anything or not. And whether I like what 
I wish or what another wishes for me.”’ 

He stopped. It was almost perfectly quiet but 
a breeze stirred the tops of the trees, and a leaf 
fell at the feet of Purana. While the sad gaze of 
Kassapa was directed upon this, a stone broke off 
from the heated cliff and rolled down to the bank of 
a brook, where a large lizard was resting at this 
moment. ... Every day at the same hour it 
crawled to this spot. Straightening its front legs 
and closing its protruding eyes, it apparently 
listened to the discourse of the sages. It was easy 

160 


“‘NECESSITY”’ 








to imagine that its green body contained the soul 
of some wise Brahmin. But this day that stone 
released this soul from its green envelope, so that 
it might enter upon new transformations. . . « 

A bitter smile spread over Kassapa’s face. 

‘Come now, ye kindly sages,’’ he said, ‘‘ask this 
leaf, if it wished to fall from the tree, or the stone, 
if it wished to break off from the cliff, or the lizard, 
if it wished to be crushed by the stone. The hour 
came, the leaf fell, the lizard heard the last of 
your conversations. For all that we know could not 
be otherwise. Or do ye say that it should and could 
have been otherwise than it was?”’ 

‘Tt could not,’’ answered the sages. ‘*‘ What has 
been had to be in the great chain of events.’’ 

‘*Ye have spoken. Therefore, the welts on the 
back of Jebaka had to be in the great chain of 
events, and every one of them has been written 
since eternity in the book of necessity. And you 
wish me, the same kind of a stone, the same kind 
of a lizard, the same kind of a leaf on the great tree 
of life, the same kind of an insignificant stream as 
this brook which is driven by an unknown power 
from source to mouth. . . . You wish me to strug- 
gle against the current which is carrying me on- 
a Rm a 

He kicked the bloody stone which fell into the 

161 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








water and he again sank back on the earth beside 
the good sages. The eyes of Kassapa again became 
dull and sad. 

Old Darnu said nothing; old Purana shook his 
head; but the cheerful Ulaya merely laughed and 
said: 

‘In the book of necessity, it is also manifestly 
written, Kassapa, that I should tell to you what 
happened once to the two sages, Darnu and Purana, 
whom you see before you. ... And in the same 
book it is written that you shall listen to the tale.”’ 

Then he told the following strange story about 
his companions and they listened smilingly, but 
neither confirmed or denied a word. 


II 


‘Tn the land,’’ he said, ‘‘ where blooms the lotus 
and the sacred stream flows upon its course,—there 
were no Brahmins more wise than Darnu and Pu- 
rana. No one had learned the Shastras better and 
no one had dipped more deeply into the ancient 
wisdom of the Vedas. But when both approached 
the end of the mortal span of life and the storms of 
approaching winter had touched their hair with 
snow, both were still dissatisfied. The years were 
passing, the grave was coming nearer and nearer, 

162 


‘‘NECESSITY”’ 








and truth seemed to recede further and fur- 
eet Tre 

Both then, well aware that it was impossible to 
escape the grave, decided to draw truth nearer to 
themselves. Darnu was the first to put on a wan- 
derer’s robe, to hang a gourd of water on his belt, 
to take a staff in his hand and to set out. After 
two years of difficult traveling, he came to the foot 
- of a lofty mountain and on one of its peaks, at an 
altitude where the clouds love to pass the night, 
he saw the ruins of a temple. In a meadow near 
the road shepherds were watching their flocks, and 
Darnu asked them what sort of a temple it was, 
what people had built it, and to what god they had 
offered sacrifices. 

The shepherds merely looked at the mountain 
and then at Darnu, their questioner, for they did 
not know what answer to make. Finally they said: 

‘‘We inhabitants of the valleys, do not know 
how to answer you. There is among our number 
an old shepherd Anuruja, who ages ago used to 
pasture his flocks on these heights. He may know.’’ 

They called this old man. 

**T cannot tell you,’’ he said, ‘‘ what people built 
it, when they did it, and to what god they here 
sacrificed. But my father heard from his father 
and told me that my great grandfather had said 

163 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








that there once lived a tribe of sages on the slopes 
of these mountains and that they have all perished, 
since they have erected this temple. The name of 
the deity was ‘Necessity.’ ”’ 

‘Necessity ?’’ exclaimed Darnu, greatly inter- 
ested. ‘‘Don’t you know, good father, what form 
this deity had and whether or not it still resides in 
this temple?”’ 

‘“We are simple people,’’ answered the old man, 
‘‘and it is hard for us to answer your wise ques- 
tions. When I was young,—and that was years 
and years ago,—I used to pasture my flock on these 
mountain sides. At that time there stood in the 
temple an idol wrought out of a gleaming black 
stone. At rare intervals, when a storm overtook 
me in the vicinity,—and storms are very terrible 
among these crags,—I used to drive my flock into 
the old temple for shelter. Rarely, too, Angapali, 
a shepherdess from a neighboring hillside, would 
run in, trembling and frightened. I warmed her 
in my arms and the old god looked down at us 
with a strange smile. But he never did us any 
evil, perchance because Angapali always adorned 
him with flowers. But they say .. .”’ 

The shepherd stopped with a doubtful look at 
Darnu and was apparently ashamed to tell him 
more. 

164 


*‘NECESSITY”’ 








‘‘Say what? My good man, tell me the whole 
story,’’ requested the sage. 

‘*They say, all the worshippers of the old god 
have not perished. . . . Some are wandering 
around the world. . . . And, sometimes, of course 
rarely, they come here and ask like you the road to 
the temple and they go there to question the old 
god. These he turns to stone. Old men have often 
seen in the temple columns or statues in the form of 
seated men, richly covered with morning-glories 
and other vines. Birds have built their nests on 
some. Later on they gradually turn to dust.’’ 

Darnu pondered deeply over the story. ‘‘Am I 
now near the goal?’’ he thought. For it is well 
known that ‘‘he, who like a blind man sees naught, 
like a deaf man, hears naught, like a tree is immov- 
able and insensible, has attained unto rest and 
knowledge.’’ 

He turned to the shepherd. 

‘*My friend, where is the road to the temple?’’ 

The shepherd pointed it out, and when Darnu 
commenced to ascend the overgrown path, he 
watched the sage a long time and then said to his 
young companions: 

*‘Call me not the oldest of shepherds, but the 
youngest of suckling lambs if the old god is not 
soon going to have a new sacrifice. Yoke me like 

165 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








an ox or burden me like an ass with various loads, 
if another stone column is not to take its place in 
the old temple! ...”’ 

The shepherds respectfully hearkened to the old 
man and scattered over the pasture. And once 
more the herds grazed peacefully in the valley, the 
ploughman followed his plough, the sun shone, 
night fell, and men were occupied with their own 
cares and thought no more of wise Darnu. Soon,— 
in a few days or so,—another wanderer came to 
the foot of the mountain and he, too, asked about 
the temple. When he followed the directions of 
the shepherd and began to ascend the mountain 
cheerfully, the old man shook his head and said: 

‘“There goes another.’’ 

This was Purana, following in the steps of wise 
Darnu and thinking: 

*‘Tt will never be said that Darnu found truth 
which Purana could not seek. 


III 


Darnu ascended the mountain. 

It was a hard climb. It was very evident that a 
human foot rarely passed over the neglected path, 
but Darnu cheerfully defied all obstacles and finally 
reached the half-ruined gates, above which was the 

- 166 


“NECESSITY”? 








ancient inscription: ‘‘I am Necessity, the mistress 
of every movement.’’ The walls had no other 
sculptures or decorations save fragments of some 
numbers and mysterious calculations. 

Darnu entered the sanctuary. The old walls 
spread aboaa che peace of destruction and death. 
But this destruction apparently had grown weary 
and left undisturbed the ruins of walls which had 
witnessed the march of centuries. In one wall there 
was a broad recess; several steps led up to an altar, 
on which was an idol of a gleaming black stone; 
the deity smiled strangely as it gazed upon this 
picture of ruin. From beneath it bubbled a brook 
which filled the wondrous silence with the murmur 
of its water. Several palms stretched their roots 
into its course and towered up to the blue sky, 
which freely looked down through the ruined 
3) ro 

Darnu involuntarily submitted to the wondrous 
spell of this place and decided to question the mys- 
terious deity, whose spirit still seemed to fill the 
ruined temple. The sage scooped up some water 
out of the cold brook and gathered some fruit which 
an old fig-tree had shed and then he began his 
preparations according to all the rules in the books 
on contemplation. First of all he sat down facing 
the idol, drew up his legs, and looked at the image 

167 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








a long time, for he wanted to impress it upon his 
mind. Then he bared his abdomen and gazed upon . 
that spot where he was bound to his mother before 
his earthly birth. For it is well known that all 
knowledge lies between being and not being and 
hence must come the revelations of contempla- 
410. 34 

In such a posture he saw the end of the first day 
and the beginning of the second. The heat of noon 
several times replaced the cool of evening and the 
shadows of night gave place to the light of the 
sun,—but Darnu remained in the same position, 
rarely: plunging his gourd into the water or ab- 
sent-mindedly picking up some fruit. The eyes of 
the sage grew dull and fixed; his limbs dried up. 
At first he felt the inconvenience and pain of im- 
mobility. Later on these sensations passed into 
complete unconsciousness, and before the stony 
gaze of the sage another world, the world of con- 
templation, began to unroll its strange apparitions 
and shapes. They no longer bore any relationship 
to the experiences of the meditating sage. They 
were disinterested, disconnected, and concerned 
only themselves, and that meant that they were the 
preludes to a revelation of the truth. 

It was hard to say how long this state continued. 
The water in the gourd dried up, the palms quietly 

168 


“‘NECESSITY”’ 


Ss 


rustled, the ripening fruits broke off and fell at 
the sage’s feet, but he let them lie on the ground. 
He was almost freed from thirst and hunger. He 
was not warmed by the noontide sun nor chilled 
by the cool freshness of the night. Finally he 
ceased to distinguish the light of day and the dark- 
ness of night. 

Then the inner eye of Darnu saw the long ex- 
pected vision. Out of his abdomen grew a green 
trunk of bamboo tipped with a knot like an ordi- 
nary stem. From the knot grew another section 
and thus, rising ever higher, the trunk grew to 
consist of fifty joints, a number corresponding to 
the years of the sage. At the top, instead of leaves 
and blossoms, grew a something resembling the 
idol in the temple. This something looked down on 
Darnu with an‘evil smile. 

‘*Poor Darnu,”’’ it said finally. ‘‘Why did you 
come here and take so much trouble? What do you 
want, poor Darnu?’’ 

**T seek the truth,’’ answered the sage. 

‘“Then look on me, for I am what you sought. 
But I see that I am unpleasant and disagreeable to 
your sight.’’ 

‘“You are incomprehensible,’’ answered Darnu. 

‘‘Listen, Darnu. Do you see the fifty joints of 
the reed ?’’ 











169 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





= 





‘‘The fifty joints of the reed are my years,’’ said 
the sage. 

‘**And I sit above them, for I am ‘Necessity,’ the 
mistress of every movement. Every act, every 
breath, everything existing, everything living is 
impotent, powerless, helpless; under the control 
of necessity it attains the aim of its existence, which 
is death. I am that which has guided the fifty 
joints of your life from the cradle to the present 
moment. You have never done a single thing in 
your whole life: not a single thing of good or 
evil. . . . You have never given a coin to a beggar 
in a moment of pity nor dealt a single blow with 
hatred in your heart ... you have never cared 
for a single rose in your monastery gardens nor 
felled a single tree in the forest ... you have 
never fed a single animal nor killed a single gnat 
which was sucking your blood.... You have 
never made a single movement in your whole life 
without it being marked down in advance by 
me. ... Because I am Necessity. ... You have 
been proud of your actions or lamented bitterly for 
your sins. Your heart trembled from love or hate, 
but I—I was laughing at you, for I am Necessity 
and write down everything in advance. When you 
entered a square to teach fools what to do or what 
to avoid,—I was laughing and saying to myself: 

170 


“NECESSITY” 








just see wise Darnu reveal his wisdom to those 
naive fools and share his sanctity with sinners. 
Not because Darnu is wise and holy, but because I, 
‘Necessity,’ am like a stream and Darnu is like a 
leaf carried away by the current. Poor Darnu, 
you thought that you had been led hither by your 
search for truth.... But on these walls among 
my calculations was marked the day and the hour. 
when you had to cross this threshold. Because I 
am Necessity. . . . Poor sage!’’ 

**T loathe you,’’ said the seer with aversion. 

**‘T know it. Because you considered yourself 
free and I am Necessity, the mistress of every 
movement.’”?’ 

Then Darnu became angry; he seized the fifty 
joints of the reed, broke them off, and flung them | 
away. ‘‘So,’’ he said, ‘‘so will I deal with the fifty 
joints of my life, because during these fifty years 
I was merely the tool of Necessity. Now I will 
free myself, because I have seen and I want to 
break my yoke.’’ 

But Necessity, invisible in the darkness which 
surrounded the dull gaze of the sage, laughed and 
repeated: 

‘‘No, poor Darnu, you are still mine, because I 
am Necessity.’’ 

Darnu opened his eyes with difficulty and sud- 

171 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





denly he felt that his feet were swollen and pain- 
ful. He started to rise, but at once he sank back 
again. Because he now saw clearly the signifi- 
cance of all the inscriptions and calculations in 
the temple. As soon as he began to move his 
limbs, he saw that his desire to do so had already 
been written on the wall. 

As from another world, the voice of Necessity 
came to his ears: 

‘‘Rise now, poor Darnu; your limbs are swol- 
len. You see 999,998 of your brothers in darkness 
do it.... It is necessary.’’ 

In disgust Darnu remained in his former po- 
sition, which now became still more painful. But 
he said to himself: ‘‘I will be one of those in the 
darkness who will not submit to Necessity, because 
I am free.’’ 

Meanwhile the sun had reached the zenith, and 
as it looked through the holes in the roof, it began 
to parch the ill-protected body of the sage. ... 
Darnu stretched out his hand toward his gourd. 

But he at once saw what was written on the wall 
under the number 999,998 and Necessity again 
said: 

‘Poor sage, it is necessary that you drink.”’ 

Darnu left the gourd untouched and said: 

**T will not drink, because I am free,’’ 

172 


**NECESSITY”’ 








There came a laugh from a distant corner of the 
temple and at the same time one of the fruits of 
the fig-tree grew too heavy to hang any longer and 
fell at the feet of the sage. At the same time a 
number on the wall changed. Darnu realized at 
once that this was a new attempt of Necessity to 
destroy his inner liberty. 

‘‘T will not eat,’’ he said, ‘‘because I am free.’’ 

Again there came a laugh from the depths of 
the temple and he heard the murmuring of the 
brook: 

‘Poor Darnu!’’ 

The sage became more angry. He remained mo- 
tionless without looking at the fruit which from 
time to time fell from the boughs, without heark- 
ening to the seductive murmur of the waters, and 
he kept repeating one phrase to himself: ‘‘I am 
free, free, free!’’ And that no fruit might thwart 
his freedom by falling directly into his mouth, he 
closed it tightly and clenched his teeth. 

Thus he sat for a long time, freeing himself from 
hunger and thirst and trying to spread abroad to 
all the corners of the earth confidence in his inner 
liberty. He grew thin, dried up, became wooden, 
lost track of time and space. He could no longer 
distinguish day and night, but he kept repeating 
and asserting to himself that he was free. After 

173 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








a certain space of time, the birds became accus- 
tomed to his immobility, flew up and perched 
upon him, and still later a pair of wild doves built 
their nest on the head of the free sage and heed- 
lessly brought forth their young in the folds of 
his turban. . 

**Q foolish birds!’’ thought wise Darnu, when 
first the calling of the parents and the peeping of 
the young penetrated his consciousness. ‘‘They do 
all this because they are not free and obey the laws 
of Necessity.’’? And even when his shoulders were 
covered with the droppings of the birds,—he again 
said to himself: 

‘*Fools! They do this too, because they are not 
free.’’ 

He counted himself perfectly free and close to 
the gods. 

Below, out of the soil, the thin tendrils of 
climbing vines began to rise and to wind them- 
selves around his immovable limbs... . 


IV 


Only once was the wise Darnu partially recalled 
from complete unconsciousness and at that time he 
felt in some remote corner of his mind a sensation 
of mild astonishment. 

174 


“‘NECESSITY”’ 








This was caused by the appearance of the sage 
Purana. Exactly like Darnu he walked up 
to the temple, read the inscription above the en- 
trance, and then going in, began to read the figures 
on the walls. The wise Purana was very unlike 
his stern companion. He was kindly and had a 
round face. A cross-section of his trunk would 
have formed a circle, his pleasant eyes sparkled, 
and his lips wore a smile. In his wisdom he was 
never obstinate like Darnu, and he sought blessed 
peace far more zealously than he did freedom. 

Walking around the temple, he came to the re- 
cess, reverenced the deity, and then, with a glance 
at the brook and the fig tree, he said: 

‘‘Here is a deity with a pleasant smile, and there 
is a stream of fresh water and a fig-tree. What 
more does a man need for pleasant contemplation ? 
Yes, and there’s Darnu. He is so blessed that the 
birds are building their nests upon him... .”’ 

The appearance of his wise friend was not espe- 
cially joyous, but Purana, gazing at him rever- 
ently, said to himself: . 

‘‘There’s no doubt he’s blessed; but he always 
loved too stern methods of contemplation. I do 
not aspire to the higher stages of blessedness, but 
I hope to tell the dwellers upon earth what I see 
on the lower planes.’’ 


175 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Then after enjoying the water and the juicy 
fruit, he sat down comfortably not far from Darnu, 
and he too prepared for contemplation in the 
proper way: that is, by baring his abdomen and 
gazing at it as the other sage had done. 

So passed a time, more slowly than with Darnu, 
for the kindly Purana often interrupted his con- 
templation to enjoy the water and the juicy fruit. 
Finally out of the navel of the second wise man 
sprang a bamboo trunk and this attained a height 
of fifty joints, the number of the years of his life. 
On the top again sat ‘‘Necessity,’’ but in his semi- 
conscious state she seemed to him to smile pleas- 
antly and he replied in the same way. 

‘“Who are you, kind deity?’’ he asked. 

*‘T am Necessity, who has governed the fifty 
years of your life. All that you have done, you 
did not do, but I did them, for you are but a leaf 
swept along by the stream and I am the mistress 
of every movement.”’ 

‘*Blessed art thou,’’ said Purana. ‘‘T see that I 
have not come to you in vain. Continue in the 
future to execute your tasks for yourself and me 
and I will watch for you in pleasant contempla- 
tion.’’ 

He lost himself in sleep with a happy smile on 
his lips. So he continued his pleasant contempla- 

176 


**NECESSITY”’ 





tion, from time to time filling his gourd with water 
or picking up fruit which had fallen to the ground 
at his feet. Each time he stirred with less and 
less pleasure, since the drowsiness of contempla- 
tion was more and more strongly mastering him, 
and since he had already eaten the fruit which was 
nearest to him, he had to exert himself to obtain 
them from the tree. 

Finally he said to himself: 

**T’m a foolish man far removed from truth, and 
that’s why I have such foolish cares. Isn’t it be- 
cause this good deity is so slow with her revela- 
tions? Here before me on the tree is ripe fruit 
and my stomach is empty. ... But doesn’t the 
law of necessity say: ‘where there is an hungry 
stomach and fruit, the latter must of necessity en- 
ter the former’? ... So, kind necessity, I submit 
to your power.... Isn’t that the greatest bles- 
sedness ?”’ 

Thereupon he buried himself in complete con- 
templation like Darnu, and he waited for neces- 
sity to manifest herself. In order to facilitate her 
task, he held his mouth open facing the fig tree. . . . 

He waited one day, two, three.... Gradually 
the smile congealed upon his face, his body dried 
up, the pleasant rotundity of his form disappeared, 
the fat under his skin wasted away and the sinews 

177 








BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








stood out distinctly through it. When at last the 
fruit ripened and fell, striking Purana on the 
nose,—the sage did not hear it fall nor did he feel 
the blow. .. . Another pair of doves built a nest 
in the folds of his turban, fledglings peeped soon 
in the nest, and the shoulders of Purana were cov- 
ered thickly with the droppings of the birds. 
When the luxurious vines had enveloped Purana, 
it was impossible to distinguish him from his com- 
panion—the obstinate sage struggling against Ne- 
cessity from the good-natured sage willingly sub- 
mitting to it. 

Absolute silence reigned in the temple, and the 
gleaming idol looked down on the two sages with 
its enigmatic and strange smile. 

Fruit ripened and fell from the trees, the brook 
bubbled on, white clouds sailed across the blue sky 
and looked down into the interior of the temple 
and the sages sat on without manifesting any signs 
of life—one in the blessedness of denial, the other 
in the blessedness of submission to Necessity. 


V 


Eternal night had spread its black wings over 
both and no living being would ever have known 
the truth which the two sages had perceived at the 

178 


“NECESSITY”? 








summit of the fifty joints of the reed. But before 
the last spark which illumined in the darkness the 
consciousness of wise Darnu had been finally ex- 
tinguished,—he heard again the same voice as be- 
fore: Necessity was laughing in the gathering 
darkness, and this laughter, taciturn and sound- 
less, seemed to Darnu a_ presentiment of 
eet: .°.'. 

‘*Poor Darnu,’’ said the implacable deity, ‘‘piti- 
able sage! You thought you could leave me, you 
hoped that you could lay aside my yoke and by 
turning into an immobile column purchase thereby 
the consciousness of spiritual liberty. . . .’’ 

**Yes, I am free,’’ answered the thought of the 
obstinate sage. I alone in the darkness of your 
servants do not obey the commands of Neces- 
"Acted 

‘‘Look here, poor Darnu. .. .”’ 

Suddenly with his inner eye he saw again the 
meaning of all the inscriptions and calculations on 
the walls of the temple. The numbers quietly 
changed, they grew or diminished automatically 
and one of them especially attracted his attention. 
It was the number 999,998. . . . And as he looked 
at it, two units more fell on the wall and the long 
number quietly began to change. Darnu trembled 
and Necessity smiled again. 

179 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








**You understood, poor sage? In every hundred 
thousand of my blind servants there is always one 
obstinate man like you, and one lazy man like Pur- 
ana. ... You have both come here.... Greet- 
ings, ye sages, who have completed my ealcula- 
i Se 

Two tears rolled down from the dull eyes of the 
sage; they quietly rolled down over his dried up 
cheeks and fell upon the ground like two ripe 
fruits from the tree of his aged wisdom. 

Beyond the walls of the temple everything went 
as usual. The sun shone, the winds blew, the people 
in the valley busied themselves with their cares, 
the clouds gathered in the heavens. ... As they 
crossed the mountains, they became heavy and 
weak. A storm broke in the mountains. . 

Again as in times of yore, a foolish shepherd 
from a neighboring hillside drove hither his flock 
and from another direction a young and foolish 
shepherdess drove hither her flock. They met by 
the brook and the recess out of which the deity 
looked at them with its strange smile, and while the 
thunder roared, they embraced and cooed, just as 
999,999 pairs had done in the same situation. If 
wise Darnu could have seen and heard them, he 
would certainly have said in the greatness of his 
wisdom : 

180 


“‘NECESSITY”’ 








‘‘Fools, they are doing this not for themselves 
but for the pleasure of Necessity.’’ 

The storm passed, the sun again played upon the 
grass, which was still covered with the sparkling 
drops of rain and lighted up the darkened interior 
of the temple. 

‘*Look,’’ said the shepherdess, ‘‘see those two 
new statues. They never were here before.’’ 

‘*Hush,’’? answered the shepherd. ‘‘Old men 
say that these are worshippers of the ancient deity. 
But they can’t do any harm. ... Stay with them 
and I’ll go and find your stray sheep.’’ 

He went out and left her alone with the idol 
and the two sages. Because she was a little afraid 
and because she was filled with youthful love and 
delight, she could not remain in one place but kept 
walking around the temple and singing loud songs 
of love and joy. When the storm was entirely 
passed and the edge of the dark cloud had hidden 
itself behind the distant summits of the range of 
mountains, she pulled some damp flowers and 
decked the idol with them. To conceal its unpleas- 
ant smile, she stuck in its mouth a fruit of the 
mountain nut with its leaves and stem. 

Then she looked at it and laughed aloud. 

That did not seem enough. She wanted to 
adorn the old men with flowers. But since good 

181 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Purana still carried the nest with the young birds, 
she turned her attention to stern Darnu, whose 
nest had been abandoned. She removed the empty 
nest, cleaned of bird droppings the turban, hair 
and shoulders of the sage and washed his face with 
spring water. She thought that in this way she 
was recompensing the gods for their protection of 
her happiness. Because even this seemed little and 
she was overflowing with joy, she bent over and 
suddenly the blessed Darnu, standing on the very 
threshold of Nirvana, felt on his dry lips the vigor- 
ous kiss of the foolish girl... . 

Soon after the shepherd returned with a lamb 
which he had found, and the two went off, singing a 
cheerful song. 


VI 


In the meantime, that spark which had not been 
quite extinguished in the consciousness of wise 
Darnu, flickered up and commenced to burn 
brighter and brighter. First of all, in him as ina 
house where everyone is sleeping, thought awoke 
and began to wander restlessly in the darkness. 
Wise Darnu thought a whole hour and formed only 
one phrase: 

‘‘They were subject to Necessity... .’’ 

182 


“‘NECESSITY”’ 


TL 





Another hour: 

‘‘But in the last instance, I too was subject to 
Besies 

A third hour brought a new premise: 

‘In picking the fruit, I obeyed the law of Ne- 
cessity.’” 

A fourth: 

‘*But in refusing, I fulfilled her calculations.’ 

A fifth: 

‘«Those fools live and love, but wise Purana and 
I die.’’ 

A sixth: 

‘‘This perhaps is a work of Necessity, but it has 
very little sense.’’ 

Then awakened thought finally stirred itself and 
began to rouse other sleeping faculties: 

*‘Tf Purana and I die,’’ said wise Darnu to him- 
self, ‘‘it will be inevitable but foolish. If I suc- 
eeed in saving myself and my companion, it will 
be likewise necessary but sensible. Therefore we 
will save ourselves. For this I need will and 
strength.’’ 

He rallied the little spark of will which had not 
been extinguished. He compelled it to raise his 
heavy eyelids. 

The daylight broke in upon his consciousness, as 
it floods a room on the opening of the shutters. 

183 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








First he noticed the lifeless figure of his friend, 
with his set face and the tear that precedes death 
already on his cheeks.’ Darnu’s heart felt such 
pity for his ill-fated fellow seeker after truth that 
his will became stronger and stronger. It entered 
his hands and they began to move; his hands helped 
his feet. . . . This all took much longer to execute 
than to decide upon. But the following morning 
found Darnu’s gourd full of fresh water at Pura- 
na’s lips, and a piece of juicy fruit fell finally into 
the open mouth of the good-natured sage. 

Then Purana’s jaws moved and he thought: ‘‘O 
benevolent Necessity. I see that you are now begin- 
ning to fulfill your promise.’’ But when he real- 
ized that it was not the goddess but his companion 
Darnu who was stirring around him, he felt him- 
self rather insulted and said: 

‘‘Hight mountain ranges and seven seas, the sun 
and the holy gods, you, I, the universe,—all are 
moved by Necessity. ... Why did you awaken 
me, Darnu? I was on the threshold of blessed 
peace.” 

“You were like a corpse, friend Purana.”’ 

‘‘He who like a blind man sees nought, like a 
deaf man hears nought, like a tree is insensible 
and immovable, has attained rest.... Give me 
some more water to drink, friend Darnu. .. .’’ 

184 


‘‘NECESSITY”’ 








‘Drink, Purana. I still see a tear on your cheek. 
Did not the blessedness of peace press it from your 
eyes?’’ 

The wise sages spent the next three weeks in 
accustoming their mouths to eating and drinking 
and their limbs to moving, and during these three 
weeks they slept in the temple and warmed each 
other with the heat of their bodies till their strength 
returned. 

At the beginning of the fourth week, they stood 
at the threshold of the ruined temple. Below at 
their feet lay the green slopes of the mountain 
descending into the valley.... Far in the dis- 
tance were the winding rivers, the white houses of 
the villages and cities where people lived their nor- 
mal lives, busied with cares, passions, love, anger 
and hate, where joy was changed for sorrow, and 
sorrow was healed by new joy, and where amid 
the roaring torrent of life men raised their eyes 
to heaven, seeking a star to guide them. ... The 
sages stood and looked at the picture of life spread 
out at the entrance to the old temple. 

‘*Where shall we go, friend Darnu?’’ asked the 
blinded Purana. ‘‘Are there no directions on the 
walls of the temple?’’ 

‘‘Leave the temple and its deity in peace,’’ an- 
swered Darnu. ‘‘If we go to the right, that will 

. 185 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








be in accordance with Necessity. If we go to the 
left, that too is in accordanee with her. Don’t 
you understand, friend Purana, that this deity 
acknowledges as its laws everything that our choice 
decides upon. Necessity is not the master but 
merely the soulless accountant of our movements. 
The accountant marks only what has been. What 
must be—will be only by our will... .”’ 

Cy SOREN ons” 

*‘TIt means,—let us permit Necessity to worry 
over her calculations, as she will. Let us choose 
that path which leads us to the homes of our 
brothers. ’’ 

With cheerful steps both sages went down from 
the mountain heights into the valley, where human 
life flows on amid cares, love, and sorrow, where 
laughter echoes and tears flow. . . . 

‘‘ And where our steward, O Kassapa, covers the 
back of the slave Jebaka with welts,’’ added wise 
Darnu with a smile of reproach. 

This is the story which the cheerful sage Ulaya 
told to the young son of the Rajah Lichava, when 
he had fallen into the idleness of despair... . 
Darnu and Purana smiled, denying nothing and 
affirming nothing, and Kassapa heard the story. 
Buried in thought he went away toward the home 
of his father, the powerful Rajah Lichava. 

186 


ON THE VOLGA 


at @ 


Noel 


ie 






5 


Ls 
. 








hed ae 
bie a 


ON THE VOLGA 
I 


S HE went out on the deck of the steamer 
which was running upstream, Dmitry Parfen- 
tyevich drew a deep breath. 

The day was ending and the sun was hanging 
low above the forest-covered mountain. The river 
furnished a majestic and peaceful picture. Some- 
where in the distance a steamboat whistled; a sail- 
‘ boat heavily laden lay on the river and seemed as 
immobile as the sleepy wife of a merchant. The 
rafts all carried fires,—the men were cooking their 
dinners. Two small barks, fastened together and 
heading obliquely across stream, floated by, hardly 
touching the glassy surface of the river, and be- 
neath them, swinging and swaying, hung their re- 
flection in the blue depths. When the wake of the 
steamer, spreading ever wider and wider, touched 
this image, it suddenly broke and scattered. It 
was a sudden shattering of a mirror and the frag- 
ments floated and sparkled for a long time. 

189 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘*Are you all right, Grunya?’’ asked Dmitry 
Parfentyevich, sitting down beside his daughter. 

‘“Yes,’’ she answered briefly. 

The girl wore a dark dress. A Scythian kerchief 
on her forehead threw a shadow over her pale 
young face; her large eyes were dreamy and 
thoughtful. 

‘‘The main thing is heavenly blessing and quiet,’’ 
moralized Dmitry Parfentyevich. 

His life was moving toward its close and he 
thought that nothing could be better than the quiet 
of a dying day. ... 

Only quiet and prayer after sinful vanity and 
weakness.... May God grant no new wishes, 
but save from every new temptation. 

‘‘Grunya?’? Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at his 
daughter and he wished to ask about her own 
thoughts. 

““Yes,’’ answered the girl, but her gaze, dream- 
ily running far ahead over the golden river and 
the mountains with their quiet veil of bluish mist, 
seemed to be seeking something else. 

The passengers on the deck were just as quiet. 
Some were carrying on private conversations; 
others were getting ready for tea at the little 
tables. 

In the stern sat a group of Tatars, returning 

190 


ON THE VOLGA 








home from Astrakhan. There was an old patri- 
arch with three sons. A fourth, the favorite, had 
been buried in a strange city. Akhmetzyan had 
been taken ill with an unknown disease, lay a week 
and died. 

** All is as Allah wills,’’ said the stern face of 
the old man, but he had still to tell the mother of 
the death of her beloved son. 

Everything breathed of silence and peace and 
the mountains on the right bank swam up one after 
the other and then, receding into the distance, they 
seemed to wrap themselves in a blue haze. 


II 


Near Dmitry Parfentyevich were the knots of 
passengers, some on benches by the table, others 
on the deck and sitting on bundles. 

There were several raftsmen from Unzha, a fat 
and good-natured country woman, and an old man, 
probably also a small farmer. The centre of the 
group at this moment was a steward for the third 
class passengers. He was still young and was 
dressed in a worn and dirty frock coat, with the 
number ‘‘2’’ on the left side. A napkin hung over 
his shoulder and with this he attained remarkable 
success in rubbing the wet tables and the glasses. 

191 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








He had just brought to the deck a tray of dishes 
with his arms wide open and with his eyes looking 
ahead and at his feet at the same instant. He had 
put the tray on the table, wiped off the dust around 
it with his napkin, and then joining this group 
of his countrymen sat down on the end of the 
bench and at once assumed a leading réle in the 
conversation which they had already commenced. 

*‘T’ll tell you,’’ he said in a wholly confident 
tone, ‘‘if I cross myself with my fist, it works. This 
way: in the Name of the Father and of the Son 
and of the Holy Ghost, Amen. It really works just 
the same. What do you think ?’’ 

He looked at the others with the air of a man 
who had just propounded a very clever riddle. 

‘“The fist, you say?’’ asked one of the peasants 
from Unzha in surprise. 

“Yes, the fist.’’ 

The listeners shook their heads as a mark of doubt 
and reproof. The farmer turned sternly to the 
young fellow: 

‘‘N-now, stop that! You claim to be above 
God. 0" 

‘“What do you mean?’’ 

‘““Why, you are a foo-fool to make the sign of 
the eross with your fist. Impossible. It never 
works,”’ 


192 


ON THE VOLGA 








“Tt does!’’ 

The young fellow looked round upon his auditors 
with a joyously radiant face and was about to give 
the answer to the riddle when he heard at one of 
the tables the impatient tapping of a spoon on a 
glass. 

The fellow jumped up as if he had been shot. In 
an instant he was at the other end of the deck, 
grabbed the tea-pots, ran to the machinery and 
back, set the table, shook himself, ran below again, 
put up the orders and passed them around the 
tables, and all the while the conversation continued 
before an enchanted audience. 

**He’s beside himself!’’ said the farmer. 

*‘Due to a stupid mind,’’ added the old woman 
pityingly. 

‘“The little fellow was a liar, that’s all!’’ 

‘How can you do it with your fist? ... That 
never works... .’’ 

The general opinion was evidently very def- 
inite. 

‘*Impossible,’? said several voices suddenly. 
‘*Tt’s impudence and nothing else. . . .’’ 

*“What——?”’ 

‘*Where did you get that notion?’’ 

‘*Tt’s impudenee. . . .’”’ 

‘*Just you listen,’’ interrupted the young waiter, 

193 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








suddenly coming up the hatch, ‘‘and you may not 
think it impudent. ... In the linen factory in 
the place where I lived there was a fellow and a 
machine caught all his fingers and slash bang! 
That’s all! He didn’t have a finger left! And 
his right hand too. ... Just imagine: being a 
man with nothing but his palm left. . . .”’ 

The audience was charmed. 

‘*What are you driving at?”’ 


**You see the question. . . . What would you do, 
brothers? . . . Could he cross himself with his left 
Bana $. 0.6 a" 


‘“What, what?’’ The farmer waved his hand. 
*“You can’t use the left hand. ... That’s for 
Batets 3243 

‘‘But he’d lost the fingers on the right, so he 
eouldn’t join them....Had only the palm 
1ettt 

cab WT Et Rear gd 

The riddle became more popular. The passen- 
gers nearby listened; those further off got up and 
walked nearer to the speaker. Even the young 
merchant who was talking very authoritatively 
about politics at the tea table with a fat gentleman, 
deigned to turn his benevolent attention to the all- 
ingrossing riddle. He tapped with his spoon and 
beckoned to the waiter. 

194 


ON THE VOLGA 








‘Waiter, how much? ... O-oh! What did you 
say: with the fist?’’ 

‘‘Yes, your excellency, among ourselves. . . . It 
doesn’t interest you. .. .”’ 

‘‘No, but it’s really clever, isn’t it?’’ remarked 
‘the merchant to his fat friend. 

The latter’s answer was unintelligible, for the 
man was struggling with a slice of bread and 
butter. 

But the Tatars sat in the stern without taking 
any part in the general conversation. They were 
silent, but once in a while they made brief remarks 
to one another in their own language. 


Tit 


Dmitry Parfentyevich started like a war horse 
at the sound of a trumpet. Grunya did not take 
her eyes from the distant mountains and the river, 
but it was easy to see that she was not looking at 
them. Without turning her head she was listen- 
ing intently to the conversation of her neighbors. 

Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at her askance. 
Hitherto she would have turned to him immedi- 
ately with a trusting question: ‘‘Papa, how’s 
that?’’ Now she seemed to pay no attention to her 
father’s opinion. 

195 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








He waited for her to ask but her large eyes fell 
with evident sympathy upon that knot of dark, 
ignorant people, who were shocked by such a mean- 
ingless change in their faith... . 

He rose and walked up to the disputants. His 
thick-set, dry figure, savagely pure, in an old-fash- 
ioned costume, won for him the immediate atten- 
tion of all. 

‘‘What’s the trouble?’’ he asked. 

“‘Tt’s this way, you see, merchant. ... This 
little fellow says you can cross yourself with your 
fist.’’ 

*‘T heard him but don’t repeat it! That man’s 
a fool!’’ 

‘“Yes, yes,’’ whispered one timidly, ‘‘we’re all 
dark people. . . .”’ 

‘‘That’s true, ... you are. If you follow the 
teachings of your true masters, you’ll find nothing 
surprising here.”’ 

The audience grew rapidly larger. All were now 
interested in the tall old man with quiet and 
majestically austere manners. Dmitry Parfentye- 
vich was not embarrassed by the attention he was 
receiving. It was not the first time. There was 
only one person in that crowd that interested him 
and that was his scholar, his disobedient and devout 
Grunya. In his own way he loved his daughter and 

196 


9? 


ON THE VOLGA 








his rough heart was torn by her unwearied doubts 
and her sad look. He passionately wished her to 
feel that peace from heaven which his own heart 
had so fully obtained. But her disobedience always 
aroused in his stern soul a storm of suppressed 
rage and this struggled with his love and usually 
conquered it. 

Grunya still kept her seat. She did not stir but 
she listened intently. ; 

‘“Now listen,’’ came to her ears the confident and 
harsh voice of her father. ‘‘This is the true cross 
and it is to this cross that we hold in order to be 
sav 9? 

He raised his hand with two fingers raised, se 
that all could see. 

‘A dissenter,’’? was the murmur in the crowd. 
Two or three merchants who were apparently fond 
of religious discussions, pressed nearer, when they 
heard this unexpected confession. 

*“We are not dissenters,’? continued Dmitry 
Parfentyevich. ‘‘We confess the true faith. This 
was the form of the cross which the holy fathers 
and the patriarchs believed in. This was taught by 
St. Theodoret.’’ 

He raised his hand with the two fingers joined 
still higher. 

‘*Press the thumb against the little finger and 

197 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








the ring finger. That is to signify the Holy Trinity. 
Three Persons united. Raise two fingers: that’s for 
deity and humanity—two natures. Theodoret 
teaches again that the middle finger is to be bent a 
little. That symbolizes humanity reverencing 
deity. See!’ 

‘*Wait!’’ interrupted one of the merchants who 
had forced his way to the front. ‘‘St. Cyril says 
something else.”’ 

““St. Cyril says the same thing. Only he bids 
you keep both fingers straight.’’ 

‘“That must make a difference.’’ 

‘“Wait, my good man, that’s wrong. . . . Don’t 
interrupt. ...’’ The speakers stopped. ‘‘Let him 
finish. . . . What about the fist, merchant?’’ 

‘Yes ... that’s the main thing.’’ 

““Tt’s like this: if he lost his fingers he wasn’t 
to blame. That means: God allowed it. It was His 
will! But a man can’t live without making the 
sign of the cross. Without the sign of the cross 
he’s worse than this heathen Tatar. He’s bound to 
cross himself . . . with his right hand... .”’ 

“<Well?”’ 

‘* And his fingers,’’ concluded Dmitry Parfentye- 
vich after a pause: ‘‘His fingers he must place in 
thought, as he is ordered by the holy fathers and 
patriarchs, .. .”’ 

198 


ON THE VOLGA 











The crowd heaved a sigh of relief and joy. 

‘‘Merchant, we thank you!’’ 

‘‘He decided, . . .”’ 

*‘That’s it: he just chewed it up and explained 
a 

‘‘With thought! That’s true!’’ 

*‘Of course! . . . With thought, nothing else!’’ 

*‘That will work all right... .’’ 

Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at his daughter. 
. . . What did he care for this applause, these 
praises from strange, ignorant people! She, his 
daughter, kept looking straight ahead with a-look 
of indifference upon her face, as if her father had 
said something which she had long known and 
which had lost all power to touch her confused and 
weary soul... .- 

The old man frowned and his voice became men- 
acing. 

**If he joins his imaginary thumb with the two 
imaginary fingers beside it—he is wrong.... A 
man who crosses himself that way will be con- 
demned to eternal damnation. . . . Cursed be he in 
this life and he will have no lot in the next.’’ 

These violent and harsh words, suddenly falling 
upon the crowd which had just quieted down, 
changed its mood, 

It became excited, began to murmur, separate 

199 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








into smaller groups. A black-eyed, black-haired 
merchant, who had maintained hitherto an obsti- 
nate silence, now struck his fist on the table and 
said with a flash of his deepset and enthusiastic 
eyes: 

‘True! The Devil Kuka and his whole crew are 
in that cursed cross with the thumb and the fingers 
next to it.’’ 

*‘No, stop!’’ shouted the Orthodox, ‘‘don’t 
insult the true cross! Why do you separate the 
Three Persons, c-curses on you? ... This is the 
Trinity in these three fingers. . . .’’ 

‘‘Where are your first fingers?’’ 

‘*‘Merchant, have you read the hundred and fifth 
article?’’ 

‘Yes, it’s on the end of the world.”’ 

Dmitry Parfentyevich remained the centre of the 
group. He was still composed and calm, but each 
time when he answered any of his opponents, he 
transfixed him with a stubborn and unfriendly 
glance. 

With splashing wheels, the steamboat steadily 
ascended the river and cleft the blue surface of 
the stream; it carried with it this group of violently 
quarreling people and the clay slopes of the steep 
bank reéchoed their confused voices. 

A steep mountain, which had concealed a bend 

200 


ON THE VOLGA 








in the river, now receded to the rear and a broad 
sweep of the river appeared in front. The sun 
hung like a red ball above the water and from the 
east, darkness spread over the meadows as if on the 
soft wingbeats of the evening shadows, overtaking 
the boat and falling more and more noticeably over 
the Volga. 


IV 


The silent group of Tatars suddenly rose from 
their places in the stern and with even step moved 
to the paddle box at the edge of the upper deck. 
They took off their coats and spread them on the 
deck. Then they took off their slippers and rever- 
ently stepped upon their coats. The glow of the 
sunset fell upon the rough facts of the Tatars. 
Their thickset figures were sharply outlined against 
the light and cooling heavens. 

‘““They’re praying,’’ one man whispered and sev- 
eral left the quarreling group and walked to the 
railing. 

Others followed. The argument quieted down. 

The Tatars stood with their eyes closed, their 
brows were raised and their thoughts were appar- 
ently lifted up to that place where the last rays of 
daylight were fading on the heights. At times they 

201 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








unlocked their arms which were crossed on their 
breasts and placed them on their knees, and then 
they bowed their heads with their sheepskin caps, 
low, so low. They arose again and stretched their 
hands with the fingers extended toward the light. 

The lips of the Moslems were whispering the 
words of an unknown and unintelligible prayer... . 

‘‘Look there,’’ said one peasant, and he stopped 
hesitatingly, without expressing his thought. 

‘““They are fulfilling the rites of their religion,”’’ 
asserted another. 

‘“Yes, they’re praying too... .’’ 

The Tatars suddenly knelt, touched their fore- 
heads to the deck, and at once rose again. The 
three young men took their coats and slippers and 
went back to their former seats on the stern. The 
old man was left alone. He sat with his feet 
crossed under him. His lips moved and over his 
beautiful face with its gray beard passed a strange 
and touching expression of deep sorrow softened 
by reverence before the will of the Most High. 
His hands quickly fingered his beads. 

““See. . . . He has beads too.”’ 

‘‘A zealous man... .”’ 

‘*Yes, it’s for his son... . He died in Astrak- 
han,’’ explained the merchant who had gone down 
the river with the Tatars. 

202 


ON THE VOLGA 








‘*Oh, oh, oh!’’ sighed one of them philosophic- 
ally. ‘‘Every man wishes to be saved. No one 
wishes to perish, whoever he is, even’ if he’s a 
Tatar... 6.7? 

It was too dark to tell who was speaking. The 
_ group melted together but the isolated figure of the 
old man still at his devotions could be seen at the 
edge of the paddle box above the water. He was 
silently swaying backwards and forwards. 

‘*Papa!’’ suddenly came a soft voice. 

It was Grunya calling her father. 

‘“What is it, daughter?”’ 

The girl was silent for a moment; she kept.look- 
ing at that praying figure of the adherent of an 
alien faith, and then her young and eager voice 
clearly sounded through the quiet: 

‘*Please, . . . what do you think: will God hear 
that prayer ?’’ 

Grunya spoke softly, but all heard her. It 
seemed as if a light breeze had passed along the 
deck and in more than one soul the question of 
the pale girl found response: will God hear that 
prayer? 

All were silent. ... Their eyes involuntarily 
turned upward, as if they wished to follow in the 
blue of the evening sky the invisible flight of that 
strange and unintelligible but beautiful prayer. ... 

203 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








‘“Why won’t He?...’’ came the irresolutely 
soft words of a good-natured peasant. ‘‘ You see, 
he’s not praying to any one else. There’s only one 
God.’’ 

““Yes, the Father. You see, he’s looking tu 
heaven. ”’ 

‘“Who knows, who knows? .. .”’ 

‘‘It’s a hard question—the ways of the 
BiG oc a 

A block creaked at the bow, the light of a golden 
star flew to the top of the mast; the waves splashed 
somewhere in the darkness; the distant whistle of 
an almost invisible steamboat re-echoed above the 
sleeping river. In the sky the bright stars appeared 
one after the other, and the blue night hung noise- 
lessly above the meadows, the mountains and the 
ravines of the Volga. 

The earth seemed to be sadly asking some ques- 
tion but the heavens remained silent with its quiet 
and its mystery.... 


204 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 


(A SxetcoH From A TRAVELER’s NOTEBOOK) 





THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
(A SKETCH FROM A TRAVELER’S NOTEBOOK) 


ARLY one summer morning I put my knap- 
sack on my shoulders and set out from 
Arzamas. 

Southeast of the city stretched the slopes of a 
green mountain. A little white church welcomingly 
and mildly peered out through the trees which grew 
in large numbers among the graves and beside the 
cemetery on the pitted sides of the mountain were 
some strange white spots. ... 

As I drew near I saw that these were small 
and almost toy houses of old brick with peaked 
roofs covered with mosses and lichens. Three were 
shorter than a man,—one, in the form of a chapel, 
was taller. The roofs supported eight-pointed 
crosses, and on the walls were the dark boards of 
ikons. The faces had been worn away by the winds 
and beaten by the rains. 

I was told in Arzamas that these were all that 

207 





BIRDS OF HEAVEN 





was left of a unique village. In earlier times the 
entire mountainside had been covered with similar 
structures, as if a city of dwarfs had been laid out 
opposite to the real city with its gigantic churches 
and its monastery. The people called this place 
the ‘‘ Village of God.’’ 

Every year, on the Thursday of the Seventh 
Week after Easter the local clergy come to this 
mountain and wave their censers in the air amid 
these peculiar houses; the incense perfumes the 
place and the choir sings: 

‘““Remember, Lord, Thy slaughtered servants and 
those who died an unknown death, whose names, 
O Lord, Thou knowest. .. .”’ 

For whom they pray, for whom they sing the 
requiem, whose sinful souls are remembered in this 
prayer,—neither the people of Arzamas who stand 
around and pray nor the clergy of Arzamas can 
tell definitely. ... For them the service in the 
disappearing ‘‘village’’ is merely a pious and re- 
vered custom, a relic of the hoary past. ... 

And this past was sad and bloodstained. ... 

Arzamas was once on the frontier. The city 
guarded the border. The breeze which raised the 
dust on the distant steppes here roused great 
anxiety and alarm. Some looked toward the 
steppes with terror, others with uneasy hopes. . , , 

208 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 








And every spark borne hither on the winds from 
the Don or the Volga, found here a goodly supply 
of inflammable material in oppression, violence, 
injustice, slavery, and grievous national suffering. 

This was the soil where was planted the Village 
of God. 


II 


It began, according to tradition, in the days of 
Stepan Timofeyevich Razin. . . . The workmen of 
Stenka robbed even in Arzamas. They fled from 
here to the north of Nizhny Novgorod, nested for 
a while in the village of Bolshoye Murashkino, and 
then passed on to Lyskovo and Makary. At their 
heels came the generals of the tsar and the bloody 
vengeance of the followers of Razin was followed 
by the not less bloody vengeance of the tsar. 

During Peter’s reign in 1708, Kondrashka 
Bulavin sent from the free Don his ‘‘pleasant 
letters.’’ ‘‘Young atamans, lovers of travel, free 
people of every class, thieves and robbers! He 
who wishes to go with the military campaigning 
ataman Kondraty Afanasyevich Bulavin, he who 
wishes to raid with him, to travel gloriously, drink 
and eat as he will, ride over the open fields on fine 
horses, let him come to the black mountains of 

209 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Samara.’’ . . . So wrote the rebellious ataman to 
the Cossacks of the Don, to the Ukraine, and the 
Zaporozhian Syech. Along the Volga, through 
cities north and south, to worthy commanders, flew 
the message and also to the villages and towns. In 
long and business-like letters, carefully composed 
with a view to their political effect, he set forth all 
the oppressions of nobles and magnates, all the 
wrongs and injustice under which the land had long 
been suffering. The appeals of Kondrashka in- 
flamed the whole land, more blood was shed, and 
savage was the vengeance of the people. . . . Again 
from Moscow advanced the regiments of troops in 
accordance with the terrible order of Tsar Peter: 

«¢. . . Go through the cities and villages which 
have joined the robbers, burn them to the last 
straw, slay the people and torture the leaders on 
wheel and stake... . For this plague cannot be 
removed, except by sternness. .. .”’ 

In those days there was no lack of sternness 
and after the pacification even the cruel tsar wrote 
to Dolgoruky, not to execute the brother of the 
slain Bulavin, for many had joined the revolt from 
misapprehension or ‘‘from compulsion.”’ 

The rebels were carried to Arzamas. Scaffolds, 
stakes, and wheels were erected along the roads 
and the city during one of these periods of ven- 

210 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 








geance was, in the words of an eye-witness quoted 
by Solovyev, ‘‘like hell’’; for more than a week 
the groans of the victims of the terrible tortures 
filled the air and birds of prey hung over the places 
of execution. 

After this pacification arose on the mountainside 
houses of the ‘‘Village of God,’’ and the people 
began to sing the requiems on the hillside. .. . 

Ere long the bone of the followers of Razin and 
of Bulavin were joined by the bones of the ban- 
ished Stryeltsi (Guards). ... Defiantly and in 
disobedience to the tsar’s order, they left Vekikiya 
Luki, whither they had been sent, and they stoutly 
resisted the tsar’s General, Shein, with a large 
foree, but they were defeated in a desperate hand- 
to-hand encounter, as they were trying to cut their 
way through to Moscow to the Stryeltsi villages 
where their wives and children were living. The 
victorious general filled the prisons and dungeons 
of Arzamas with the men who had disobeyed the 
tsar’s orders. The ring-leaders were punished. 
The tsar returning from abroad was dissatisfied 
with the weakness and the mildness shown by Shein 
to the rebels. A judge was sent from Moscow to 
make a new investigation. ... There were not 
enough executioners in the city to administer the 
new tortures and punishments and more had to be 

211 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








summoned from Moscow for the occasion. ... 

New houses were added to the ‘‘Village of 
Cfo Pos 

Drenched with blood, the naive and rebellious 
dream of the people for a free life died away until 
new outbreaks commenced, a dream closely con- 
nected with the old cross and the beard, with Cos-. 
sack bands, and with confused memories of the 
freedom of the steppes. The old injustice weighed 
more and more heavily upon them and hardened 
and increased their century-old suffering. The 
memory of the people involuntarily -returned to 
those who promised freedom and who sealed this 
promise with their own and others’ blood... . 
Time and time again, like stones washed down to 
the shore by the raging torrent, new groups of 
‘“houses of God’’ appeared on the slopes of the 
mountain of Arzamas. 

At first, perhaps, each grave preserved the mem- 
ory of a definite man, his name, and his saint on an 
ikon. Some one would bring ‘these ikons and 
sprinkle the tombs of shame with passionate tears 
of love and sympathy. These mourners died... « 
The wind, the rains, and the sun faded the faces 
on the ikons, and along with these there perished 
the living personal memory of the people buried 
here, There remained hanging above the moun- 

212 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 





— 
—- 


tain only a vague tradition and a vague popular 
feeling, . . . a feeling of sad inability to compre- 
hend, which dared not pronounce its own judg- 
ment and presented this to heaven. . . . And down 
the centuries, from year to year, even to our own 
times, sounds the solemn prayer for all those who 
had been put to death, be they innocent or guilty, 
and for all those who died an unknown death... . 

. . . Whose names, O Lord, Thou knowest. ... 





Il 


I heard the following tale in Arzamas. 

It was after the suppression of the rebellion of 
Razin. The tsar’s generals had erected near 
Arzamas a whole forest of columns with cross- 
beams and towards evening the city saw in horror, 
as they looked from one hill to another, hanging 
upon them the bodies of atamans and of the men 
of Arzamas who had joined the revolt. The bloody 
sun set behind the mountain, fearful darkness cov- 
ered the heavens, and crows swarmed in clouds 
around their booty. The people kept asking one 
another: ‘‘Who is hanging there on the mountain ? 
Criminals and murderers or the defenders of pop- 
ular freedom, the avengers of century-old injus- 
tices?’’ 

213 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








That same night a young merchant of Arzamas 
was driving his tired horse along the road from 
Saratov and he was urging it on with all his might. 
He abandoned far from the city his cart and the 
wares which he was bringing from the Volga, and 
was hurrying ahead without resting at all; he had 
learned from fugitives whom he had met that there 
was something wrong in the city and that the men 
of Razin were rioting in it. And he had left in 
the city his father and mother and his young wife 
with her first-born babe. 

At midnight the young man galloped on his 
foaming horse out of the forest on to a hill in sight 
of his natal city. There was no gleam of fire to be 
seen above the city, no alarm bells to be heard. The 
city seemed dead; but in two or three of the 
churches were there timid lights,—perchance by 
the dead bodies of ‘‘honorable citizens,’’ who were 
waiting Christian burial... . 

Suddenly . .. his horse started. . . . It was at 
that very place where now stand the ‘‘houses of 
God.’’ . . . The merchant saw a dread and leafless 
forest standing on the mountain side, and, like 
ripe fruit, the bodies of good young men hanging 
on the trees, with crows flapping their wings and 
picking out the eyes of the dead. 

The young merchant’s heart had been surging 

214 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 





with uncertainty and sorrow during his hurried 
journey by day and night, uninterrupted save by 
the need of changing his tired horses, and his soul 
was weighted down as by a rock with his hatred for 
the rebels of Razin. He stopped his horse under 
one scaffold, rose in his stirrups and with all his 
strength he lashed one of the dead bodies and 
cursed it. ... The body swayed. ... The chain 
ereaked and a cloud of crows rose in the air, flap- 
ping and cawing. 

A dreadful result followed: the tortured dead 
descended from every scaffold, from every wheel, 
and from every hook and rushed at the merchant. 
. . . The maddened horse tore through the fields, 
leaped the ravines, and reached the city utterly ex- 
hausted. And throughout the whole flight, like 
autumn leaves driven by a gale, dashed after him 
the shades of the executed, with their dead eyes 
aflame, and their fettered hands grasped after him 
with curses and moans, and their dead voices wailed, 
lamented, cursed. .. . 

Then the merchant realized that it was not for 
him to judge those who were now standing before 
a far different tribunal, pleading there their own 
and others’ sins, their own and others’ wrongs, 
their own and others’ blood. In that dreadful 
hour he took a solemn oath to bury all those who 

215 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








had been executed and yearly to have a requiem 
for them. 

Since then, it is said that the houses of God 
have stood in Arzamas. Since then the clergy sing 
the requiem over the nameless graves and the ikons 
which have been brought hither do not perish 
unnoticed. ... 


IV 


It was a clear, calm morning when I went out 
to the remains of the Village of God. A tired 
woman who was driving a lost cow crossed herself, 
when she saw the cross of the chapel. A gang of. 
workmen, ‘‘panniers’’ of Arzamas, were going to 
their work. A very old peasant, gray as an owl 
and with faded but still living eyes, was sitting on 
the threshold of the chapel and binding the flaps of 
his rough boots. The sun had just risen above 
the distant forests. 

‘‘Greetings, grandsir,’’ I said to the old man. 

‘Good morning, son. ... Where’re you going?’’ - 

‘To Sarov.’’ 

‘*You’re on the wrong road. There’s the proper 
way. ... To the bridge and then the village 
there.’’ 

*‘T know, grandsir. I left the road on purpose, 
so as to see the houses of God.”’ 

216 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 








‘*Look, son, look. .. . And pray here too.... 
It’s a holy place, you know. . . .’’ 

‘Don’t you know who’s buried here?’’ 

*“Yes, son, yes! People of every class. . . . Vio- 
lence! ... A Saltykov, a landowner from the 
Vyyezdnaya Sloboda, who oppressed the people,— 
God forbid.’’ 

The old man sadly shook his gray beard. 

**You know, old people say,—a merchant was 
going from Makary to Arzamas,—and offered 
thanksgiving for arriving safely. Glory to God— 
he was at home! At dawn he went out of the city 
peacefully and met the lord and his retainers on 
the bridge. There was no justice. ... They 
hurled him from the bridge into the Tesha and in 
a day or two his body floated to the city... . It 
was picked up and buried here, on the mountain. 
And here it lies till the Day of Judgment. .. .”’ 

I was already familiar with the name of this 
Saltykov: the old records in the archives of Nizhny 
Novgorod preserve the dark memories of the acts 
of this noble family, and one is well known from 
the revolt of Pugachev: his retainers collected the 
taxes by robbery. When the glad tidings spread 
among the’ people that Petr Fedorovich had made 
himself known and was marching to recover his 
throne, the serfs of Saltykov thought that there 
217 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








would be an end to their master’s outrages and 
their necessarily sinful lives. The mir assembled, 
seized and bound their lord, put him in a eart 
and took him to the ‘‘tsar’s camp’’ for trial. 
‘“But,’’ said one landowner who described the inci- 
dent, ‘‘the Lord heard the prayers of the innocent 
victim and the rascals instead of going to the camp 
of the pretender, carried him to the troops of 
Mikhelson.’’ 

It goes without saying that the kindly nobleman 
was quickly released and the wicked peasants 
received just punishment. Their bones perhaps 
joined those of the followers of Bulavin, the Stry- 
eltsi and the victims of this same Saltykov. They 
all lie there together awaiting ‘‘the judgment of 
God’’ over all earthly actions... . 

‘*Yes, there’s the Sloboda,’’ said the old man, 
rising to his feet and pointing to the village with 
its columns of smoke and with the morning fog 
across the river Tesha. ‘‘And there, higher up, 
were the gardens of Saltykov. ...”’ 

‘Do you think these houses of God were built 
since, grandsir?’’ I asked. 

-“N-no, friend! Since! N-no. ... Much ear- 
lier. . . . Perhaps since Pugachev.”’ 

‘“Who was Pugachev?’’ 

‘‘Who knows, we are dark people. We heard 

218 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 








from our fathers and grandfathers nothing but 
Pugachev and Pugachev. .. . You know the old 
story. My father died forty years ago and he was 
ninety years old when he died. . . . And he was 
still a boy when Pugachev appeared. Count now, 
how long ago it was.’’ 

‘‘A hundred and twenty years, grandsir.”’ 

‘*Yes, a hundred and twenty,—and more!... 
Pugachev was a stern man. Oh, so stern. You 
know, he didn’t love the landowners. He’d go into 
a village. ‘Give me your lords!’ If the peasants 
hid them,—God forbid! Cruel. ... My father, 
God bless him, once told me there were two villages 
side by side. The people of one guessed right. 
They took the ikon and went to meet him, ringing 
the bells. He pardoned them, rewarded them, gave 
them a charter of his favor.... Ours didn’t; 
the fools didn’t meet him and he burned the whole 
village.’’ 

The old man suddenly looked at me, saw my 
watchchain and the notebook in which I began to 
jot down the main points of his story,—and he 
suddenly took off his cap and said: 

‘‘Forgive me, for Christ’s sake!’’ 

‘“What’s the matter, grandsir?’’ 

‘‘That wasn’t so, perhaps.... We’re dark 
people; how should we know?... Perhaps he 

219 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








never said it. . . . But it is true that he was stern. 
. . . He loved order. .. .”’ 

The old man seemed to be afraid that the gen- 
tleman would condemn him for familiar stories 
about the high qualities of Pugachev, who ‘‘loved 
order’’ and issued ‘‘charters of his favor”’... . 

T succeeded in calming his anxiety, and we con- 
tinued to talk. The old man proved communi- 
eative. His memory kept much curious lore and 
his simple answers revealed that same vague 
atmosphere which filled the place: a feeling of 
pardoning and timid lack of comprehension, of 
vague questioning and of prayer for those who 
lie here, under the earth, and perchance had been 
executed as punishment for crime or perchance had 
laid down their lives for a cause punishable here 
on earth but counted holy and righteous there. 

The group of workmen stopped along with me 
to hear the almost forgotten traditions connected 
with this spot. 


V 


We went together into the little chapel. Its 
walls were covered with regiments of ikons, and 
at the eastern end was a crucifix also surrounded 
by ikons. Gloomy faces, dark boards, bereft of 

220 


THE VILLAGE OF GOD 








heads. . . . Oh, so many were lacking heads. .. . 
As if the vague feeling of the simple offerers had 
sought thus to express their feeling that the pun- 
ishments were undeserved. .. . 

T was especially surprised by one ikon, of a cruci- 
fix painted on the cubical base. It was not old or 
had perhaps been renewed and it might well have 
been a piece of individual workmanship inspired 
by the sadness of this place. On a semi-circular hill 
with no attempt at perspective could be seen a 
severed hand with compressed fingers. Beside it 
were huge nails. Hammer and saw were hanging 
in the air. Fragments of chains.... A column 
with a bundle of rods and whips fastened to it were 
painted against a background of whirling clouds. 
But a faint light pierced the clouds and penetrated 
the mists like a faint gleam of hope. And as if to 
emphasize this idea more clearly, the artist had de- 
picted a cock greeting the sunrise.... On the 
top of the column the bird was standing with vibrat- 
ing wings and open beak, welcoming the morn- 
ee 


Silently we left the chapel. Although the inte- 
rior was not dark,—yet it seemed to me that in 
passing out through this low door we were passing 
from deep gloom into the light of a clear sky. 

221 


BIRDS OF HEAVEN 








Directly ahead of me little heads of grain waved 
their brilliant wings as if they were alive. The 
churches and monasteries of Arzamas, like lace, 
gleamed on the neighboring mountain. The 
Vyyezdnaya Sloboda with its little church looked 
down beautifully into the Tesha. 

‘Oh, God,’’ sighed one of the peasants deeply 
and slowly. 

What did this sigh express? I do not know. 
Was it a consciousness of the difficult conditions 
of life for the workingmen at this present time? 
Or was it a feeling that, no matter how hard con- 
ditions were now, yet it was better to live in the 
present than in the gloomy night of the past? ... 
I thought it was the second idea. 

We parted and each went his own way. 


222 











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